


A Parade of Indignities

by RissyNicole



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming of Age, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, ZADE, ZADF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RissyNicole/pseuds/RissyNicole
Summary: After inadvertently learning the truth about Zim's mission, a now fifteen-year-old Dib comes to a moral crossroads. Now, he must make an imperative decision to help Zim after an attempt on his life leaves the Irken in dire need of medical attention.





	1. Of French Toast and Scythe-Haired Stalkers

**Author's Note:**

> This little story has been a project of mine for the last several months, starting at around August of 2017. I began writing it, my very first fic, to help me shake some rust after nearly a decade hiatus from creative writing. I have already posted nearly a dozen chapters over on FFN, but a friend of mine suggested posting it over here on ao3 as well. And since I can't argue with the prospect of more traffic from posting on multiple platforms, I'm going to start uploading on both! It is still a work in progress and it is a ZADE/ZADF story. *Rated for mild profanity, angst, and morbid subject matter.
> 
> Please, if you enjoyed it, let me know what you think! I welcome any and all constructive criticism and feedback!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Invader Zim. All rights reserved to the respective owners.
> 
> This story is dedicated to my dear friend and esteemed fellow writer, dib07.

The apocalyptic red sky, adorned with steaks of white, cast its ominous glow over the neighborhood. The sun beat down, idly warming the earth and a small breeze accompanied the tranquility of the balmy spring morning. As always, the planet's inhabitants remained in a state of blissful ignorance. They went about their days and failed to recognize the oddities that lay right beneath their noses. In the form of a bizarre teal house with even more bizarre occupants, this oddity was unrecognized by nearly all. On this day, the streets outside the peculiar glowing abode were immersed in the peace of a quaint Saturday morning during the peak of spring. People went about their morning routines, scuttling down the sidewalk, obliviously jogging and walking by with dogs and strollers in tow.

After a few moments, the quiet was interrupted by the faint sound of the television radiating from within the walls of the living room. Then, in a stunning feat of vocal amplification, "GIR! TURN OFF THAT FILTH!"

The demand pierced through the air, arousing vague interest from the various passerby as they glanced up in mild irritation at the source of the noise before continuing with their respective lives.

Inside the house, GIR muted the television dejectedly and wandered into the kitchen where Zim had emerged from his base, via toilet. The Invader was distracted, pacing the floor of his mock living area, seemingly lost in his own reverie as he began searching for something. He rifled through drawers, checked between couch cushions, and glanced agitatedly around the room.

GIR watched on, momentarily curious, before lighting up and running into the kitchen. His 'advanced' brain had yet to focus on a single objective for longer than a few seconds before he was on to the next non-sequitur. He dashed back out a few moments later, stopping before he plowed headfirst into Zim's rear.

Though deep in thought, Zim sensed his SIR unit's presence and turned to face him, scrutinizing the little robot up and down. He scowled, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

"Why on Irk are you covered in syrup, GIR?" he growled with clear irritation, fading slightly out of his previous trance.

"I made French toast! For the trip! Whoooo!" GIR pumped his tiny fists in the air, obviously proud of this messy accomplishment. Syrup dripped down his arms and onto the floor as he did so.

"I told you to stay out of my way. I'm very busy," replied Zim in exasperation, turning away again. His vague answer indicated that he was already back in his own little world, not at all listening to his robotic henchman.

"Where is it? Where is it? I can't leave this stinking planet without my, my...ugh!" Zim muttered angrily, pacing the floors and searching through various nooks and crannies.

GIR wandered in with a plate of French toast. "What you looking for?"

"My wig!" Zim spat, growing ever more frantic as he searched.

"It's on your head!" GIR squawked, accidentally spilling some syrup from his plate as he leaned forward, pointing at Zim's stunned countenance.

Zim swiftly felt his head, tearing off the black wig and revealing his two antennae, pointed upwards in his agitated state. They almost immediately flattened back against his skull again as he sighed in relief. He straightened, composing himself once more.

"GIR, it's very important that we arrive to the convention well prepared. That means giving our insubordinates a lesson in what it TRULY means to be an Invader." He shook the wig in GIR's face as he spoke. "We must demonstrate just how we have managed to SEAMLESSLY blend in with the humans."

It had been quite some time since the Great Assigning on planet Conventia—five putrid Earth years to be exact—and it was now time for the Progress Convention for all Irken Invaders assigned to planets in Operation Impending Doom 2. All would meet amongst each other, presenting the progress made in their respective missions. They would discuss their tactics for blending in with the indigenous life, present notes taken on their weaknesses, and debate the best strategies for world conquest. As if this weren't unnerving enough, the Tallest would also be in attendance, listening and undoubtedly judging each Invader on their advancements.

True to his style, in the final hour, Zim had masked his nervousness amply behind an extra layer of arrogance. He had been pacing around the base, yelling orders at GIR and frantically packing bags all morning.

GIR watched as Zim packed up his pathetic human disguise alongside GIR's green doggie suit in a very formal looking suitcase. He turned to face the little robot again, who had speared his fork into another syrupy slice of French toast. Zim stood perfectly erect with his hands clasped behind his back, ready to stream another tirade of demands and complaints.

"Now, it's very important that we remember to bring everything of value along with us. Even with the Voot in hyperdrive, this will still be a long trip. We can't afford to forget anything! And the base MUST be secured against that horrible DIB!" Zim inhaled sharply, revving himself up for another onslaught of words.

"Are you listening GIR? All defenses must be activated, all gnomes set to the highest security possible. Now where is my Elite uniform? I  _must_  bring it! NO! I can't show myself without the proper attire! Gah! this is just awful! We can't—" GIR nonchalantly lifted his fork and popped the whole slice of French toast into Zim's mouth, cutting off his next sentence. Zim's fuchsia eyes widened in bewilderment as he snapped out of his little outburst.

Before the overreactive Irken could properly respond, though, GIR had scampered away to finish packing his own trivial belongings.

* * *

Meanwhile, Earth's Sole Defender lay face-down across his desk in a small puddle of drool. The sun attempted to peek in through his closed blinds, but his dark room kept the balmy weekend morning shut away from sight. Dib snored lightly, exhausted from watching video footage of Zim's front door all night.

Whether he liked to admit it or not, he was becoming more and more like his father each day. While Professor Membrane devoted his life to science, however, Dib had spent every waking second of his young life immersed in the paranormal and unexplained. And like his father, he had unwittingly fallen into the limbo of a certified workaholic.

Dib had grown a head taller than his alien counterpart, further exemplified by the progressing gangliness of his limbs and awkward skip in his step. Just shy of sixteen years of age, he had become slightly milder mannered in the past couple years. While he still harbored an unhealthy obsession with apprehending Zim, he had learned to hold his tongue among his peers. As to be expected, years of constant taunting had only fueled his angst and frustration towards the world. While this was a staple in adolescence, though, Dib had also found himself metamorphizing into more and more of a misanthrope as each year passed him by. Like grade school, he secluded himself from others aside from his family and focused almost entirely on his paranormal studies.

And while he fought desperately to maintain the same life he had always lived, he could feel the tension of impending adulthood bubbling beneath the surface and threatening to erupt into a full identity crisis.

Dib muttered in his sleep and stirred. His hand brushed lightly against a large notebook that he used to record his paranormal sightings. The movement caused it to tip off the edge of the table and smack loudly onto the floor, pulling Dib unceremoniously out of his dreams and causing him to nearly jump out of his skin at the noise. His glasses were askew, and his scythe lock hung limply across his forehead.

"Wha?" He mumbled groggily as he lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. He glanced at the clock briefly, it's glowing red numbers indicating that it was just past 7:00 a.m. Grabbing his trench coat, which had been cast to the floor in a heap the night before, Dib slipped out of his chair and sprinted downstairs to his kitchen.

As to be expected, Professor Membrane had left long ago to work. Weekends held no meaning for someone without whom the Earth would fall into chaos. Dib's sister, Gaz, was likely still asleep, though there was no way to be certain. Her door remained shut and heavy silence emanated throughout the house.

Dib padded through the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of milk and pulling out a small voice recorder from his pocket. "After a night of observing Zim's base and listening in on conversations via the bug I planted in his main room, I can deduct that he is preparing for… _something_. The aerial surveillance system is fully functional, as is the camera I placed in the front view of his freakish little house. I will follow up with more as information becomes available." Dib proudly set his device on the table, inexplicably satisfied with his lackluster notetaking skills and supply of valuable information. As he moved about the kitchen, he simultaneously tinkered with a set of binoculars and prepared his breakfast.

His newest strategy of infiltration was the aerial surveillance camera. Which, of course was just a drone he had purchased with the sole intent of spying on Zim's house from above.

So far, the results were…boring. Dib had hoped to catch footage of Zim's Voot Cruiser taking off, but so far, the alien had kept to himself and stayed indoors. No doubt plotting something despicable…

Gaz walked into the kitchen in the midst of this, absently taking the plate of toast Dib had left on the counter as he became immersed in packing his various gadgets and notepad into his backpack.

"Hey! That's mine," he complained as he whipped around. Gaz ignored him and sat at the table. Small, tinny noises emanated from her Game Slave as she silently ate Dib's breakfast and battled her way through level 67 of Super Kicky Fighter.

Dib scowled and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Whatever! I'm going to go spy on Zim's base. Who knows what evil he's plotting? As the last line of defense from Earth's demise, I must be there to stop him!" Dib walked past his sister, who was still engrossed in her game. She growled in response to his little spiel and turned away from him. After a few seconds, the front door slammed and Gaz rolled her eyes.

As he approached his destination, Dib eyed the bush across the street from Zim's house with zeal. Over the years, he and this bush had grown well acquainted, seeing that it served as the perfect lookout to spy on the alien and his demented minion. Dib settled in and produced the same earpiece he had used the night before to listen in on Zim and GIR.

"Now, GIR, prepare the Voot for our departure," Zim's nasally voice proclaimed. Dib's eyes narrowed as he adjusted the volume on his earpiece to better hear his nemesis.

-x-

Weeks ago, Dib had executed an elaborate plan to better spy on Zim. He had faked a sick day, taking the opportunity to sneak into Zim's house while he was away at Skool. Dib infiltrated the base, holding something invisible from sight tightly in his fist as he narrowly avoided the gnomes shooting lasers at him. Once at the door, Dib smirked. The hard part was over. He knocked politely, summoning Zim's strange robot doggie. Revealing the small device, Dib easily convinced GIR to plant it within the base, telling him that it was a surprise for his master.

"Hide it somewhere safe! Zim can't find it until…uh…his birthday…" Dib had lied badly. That's all he had to do, though. GIR had squealed enthusiastically and pranced back inside, finding a place to hide the little recording device.

-x-

"Too easy," Dib said aloud from the bush, revisiting the memory. He scribbled something into his notebook and continued to eavesdrop. Zim rambled incoherently as his voice slowly faded. He had moved to another room. As Dib listened, he heard a padding of small metallic feet grow louder. "Ooooh! Can't forget Master's birthday present!" Everything became muffled as GIR lifted the device and took the elevator upstairs where the Voot Cruiser resided. Dib could hear Zim's voice return as GIR and the recording device approached him.

"GIR! Where have you been? Get in the Cruiser at once!"

Before Dib could process what was happening, the roof of Zim's base opened and the sound of the Voot powering up were heard. Dib gasped and dropped to his knees. His heart pounded violently against his ribcage as he shoved his arm into his backpack, fumbling around for his camera.  _Zim was going to fly his ship in broad daylight?_  Dib was incredulous. He immediately thought back to his aerial surveillance camera and had to fight back a squeal of delight. He was finally going to get solid footage of Zim!

As he watched, though, nothing happened. The sound of the Voot's engine grew louder and louder. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the noise slowly faded and the roof closed back up. Dib lowered his camera. His face was plastered with confusion. Suddenly, something dropped out of the sky, landing at his feet in a heap of twisted metal. Dib emerged from his bush and approached it warily. It was his drone, mangled and destroyed.

Realization slowly spread throughout Dib in a crescendo of disappointment.

Irken cloaking technology had hidden the Voot from sight, thus allowing Zim the opportunity to make a seamless departure. In his haste, he had also plowed right through Dib's aerial surveillance camera, destroying it beyond repair.

Dib hung his head in frustration and dismay. He turned back to his bush dejectedly, ready to head home and forget his latest failure. Such is life for one with such a damned existence. He picked up his belongings and was in the midst of yanking the headphones from his ears, when, suddenly, a small voice spoke faintly into them. Dib's hand paused in midair.

"Are we there yet? When we gonna get there? You got any gummy worms?" It was GIR's voice from within the Voot Runner. "Shut up, GIR," Zim angrily retorted into the device.

Dib dropped his hand in astonishment. A sly smile crept onto his face and his eyes blazed with newfound fervor. The laugh that tumbled out of his mouth was barely controlled, piercing through the streets with an air of hope and just a hint of madness. Dib would get his proof after all.

* * *

Zim's gloved claws gripped the controls tightly as the Voot Cruiser broke through Earth's atmosphere and into space. He steered it in the right direction and put the ship on autopilot. Finally, Zim sat back in his chair, and gazed aloofly at the galaxy before him. His eyes narrowed. Now that packing was finished and the ship was in route to Conventia, Zim had nothing left to do but wait, alone with his own thoughts. His own thoughts and GIR. The tiny robot hummed quietly and stared out the window at the stars as they shot by.

The hours ticked by and Zim's stiff posture wavered. He could feel his muscles tightening and his hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap. His spooch gurgled loudly, overwhelmed with repressed anxiety and too much French toast, courtesy of GIR.

The Invader would never admit to a single soul that he was nervous to report in among his fellow Elite soldiers. In fact, he would never admit it to himself. The little Irken would much rather dive into a subconscious state of denial. At the first hint his emotional state may be compromised, his outer defenses went up, stifling any inferior sensitivities behind his signature egotism and repudiation. In a way, Zim's natural defense mechanisms were both a blessing and a curse.

Even so, he had been faced with a harsh reality that even someone of his thick-headedness couldn't ignore.

-x-

The previous week, Zim had been in better spirits, flitting around in his labs as he prepared for the convention. He was filled with zeal, a smirk painted across his face as gathered paperwork and schematics. He swiveled in his chair and hummed happily. His mind went to far off places.

He imagined himself being hailed as a god, the best invader the Irken military had ever seen. The Tallest would cry out in joy upon seeing his face, warmly regarding their most beloved soldier as he graciously taught the other Invaders just how world conquest is done. The other soldiers would surely bow at the feet of the amazing Invader Zim, awed by his accomplishments. He had successfully—

Zim paused, his smiled beginning to pull down at the edges as he racked his brain.

He had destroyed—

No…

Zim thought harder. He started to sweat nervously as the events of the past several years rolled by in his mind.

He almost took control of—

Huh. Well, his latest plan hadn't combusted in his lab…

Zim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gazed blankly at his computer monitor. Had he truly completed nothing? Zim scoffed at the idea, but it remained in the back of his mind for the next week, festering as the date approached. Zim grew ever more anxious, raising the suspicions of his large headed arch-nemesis, Dib.

Only a few days before he was set to leave, Zim sat alone at the lunch table at Skool, picking at his food as usual. He was distracted and deep in thought, thinking hard about the trip before him. He imagined being surrounded by his own kind again, even if just for a short time. The thought gave him mixed feelings.

Then, without even turn his head, he sensed Dib approaching him from behind. "Hey, space monster!" Before he could respond, Dib had forcefully gripped the back of Zim's head with his hand and slammed his face into the plate of mashed potatoes in front of him. He then proceeded to laugh maniacally, waiting for Zim's reaction.

To his surprise, though, Zim merely wiped the mess from his face and continued to gaze irately down at the table. Dib looked confused, stunned into silence as his typically overreactive enemy outright ignored him.

"What do you want, Dib-stink?" he asked eventually, sensing Dib still behind him. "Are you just here to be a nuisance? I'm very busy!" Zim looked irritated. He hopped out of his seat and walked past the boy, wiping off mashed potatoes as he marched outside to the schoolyard.

Dib's eyes narrowed as he watched Zim's departing form. "He's up to something, I just know it!" Even years later, the cliched phrase never phased Dib. His fervent attempts to stop Zim continued with the same dedication as when the two had first met.

Then he had decided to make use of his latest purchase: the aforementioned aerial surveillance camera. For the next three days, unbeknownst to Zim, Dib had been relentlessly spying on the alien as he prepared for his trip, leading up to his grand moment in the bushes as he took off for his convention.

-x-

With the Voot in hyperdrive, the trip was much shorter in comparison to Zim's initial six-month expedition to Earth. Even so, the journey was long and very dull.

Zim flopped back into his chair and closed his eyes. Irkens seldom slept—unless they were sick or injured, it was a purely optional affair. Zim often went weeks at a time without so much as resting his eyes. His work was never done, and the small Invader would rather devote his precious time to devising his plans instead of wasting it on such indulgences.

Now, though, there wasn't anything better to do. So Zim hung his head back and focused on taking deep breaths in the stuffy cockpit. Within moments, he was snoring lightly while GIR wandered aimlessly around the confined space. When he caught sight of Zim, he reached into a compartment inside his head, pulling out a blanket and a rubber piggy. He placed these over the sleeping Irken and admired his handy work.

"Aww," GIR crooned. He reached back into his head, pausing when he grabbed ahold of something foreign. He pulled out the small black recording device, sneaking a glance at Zim as he did so.

"Oooh. Gotta keep Master's present thingy safe."

GIR replaced the object in his head compartment and giggled. A moment later, he reached into another compartment in his belly and inexplicably produced a bottle of ketchup. He dropped into the seat beside Zim's prone form. He began to nonchalantly drink from the bottle and hum lightheartedly as the Voot shot onward through the vastness of space.


	2. Of Good Impressions and the Importance of Being Zim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I mentioned before, this IZ novel has been a work in progress for quite a while. It's about 60% finished and I've been updating on a fortnightly basis on fanfiction.net. Over the next week or so, I'll be uploading pretty steadily, with the sole intention of getting it at the same place as it is over on FFN (which has 11 finished chapters already posted.) So yeah! On a side note, it's really interesting to go back through these super early chapters that I wrote nearly six months ago. I can see how I've grown/evolved as a writer and it's a really nice feeling! Anyhow, enjoy this next one!

Conventia loomed ahead as Zim regained full control of his ship. He approached the planet quickly, preparing to land in the docking area. GIR darted around him, overjoyed at what he could only assume would be the beginning of a fabulous adventure.

Shortly after claiming Tak's ship and seeing firsthand the various feats of Irken engineering, Dib had made a mockery of Zim's own admittedly obsolete ship. He once compared the Voot Runner to Earth automobiles. He likened it to the equivalent of an old, crappy hand-me-down Honda Civic. It ran reliably, but it was undoubtedly a piece of garbage. Dib had laughed so hard, tears sprung in his eyes and his glasses fogged over. Zim had been, and still was, unamused by this little comment. As it was, he only really had a loose understanding of his enemy's insults anyhow.

The memory jumped into Zim's mind as he searched for a parking spot among the shiny new display of Spittle Runners, Shuvvers, and Ring Cutters.

Zim parked beside a rather sleek looking Shuvver and stood up from his chair, stretching his cramped limbs. GIR observed this for a moment and began doing yoga poses beside him. The two then gathered their materials and took the teleporters to the planet's surface.

At the entrance of the building, Zim and GIR paused. Zim held on tight to his carrycase in one hand. The metal case, emblazoned with the Invader insignia, held his disguise, notes on the indigenous lifeforms of Earth, and his schematics for his latest plan at conquering it. In his other hand, he held the invitation he had received. Addressed to Irken Invader Zim, it read:

_The Almighty Tallest have required the attendance of all Invader-Class Irken Elites for the yearly Progress Convention, to be held in room 768-B3. There, all Invaders will gather to discuss their findings regarding Operation Impending Doom II and report in to the Tallest in person. Failure to comply will result in incarceration and possible re-encoding._

Short, threatening, and unnecessarily curt. Much like the Irken race in general.

Zim gripped the paper firmly in his hand and walked past the security kiosk and metal detectors. Once inside the conference hall, a large Irken guard approached him. He was much taller than Zim, and somewhat wider as well, though his girth was exacerbated by the sheer amount of armor he wore. His collar covered his mouth, leaving only his narrowed amethyst eyes to emote with.

"Your SIR unit will be taken for routine maintenance. The conference room is down the hall on your left." He spat these words with disdain, as though he felt it was beneath him to be associating with Zim.

Zim was blithely unaware as usual, instead trying to wrestle GIR away from his leg. The small robot had latched onto his master firmly, distraught at the mere idea of basic maintenance. The beefy guard coldly reached out his claws and yanked GIR away by the antenna before turning away without another word and disappearing down the hall. GIR, in an abrupt change of heart, waved pleasantly to Zim as he was carted off.

Zim stared at them as they rounded the corner, mildly taken aback by the sudden departure of his robotic servant. Then, without another thought, he turned and headed in the direction the guard pointed him towards.

-x-

A magenta, oval shaped table resided in the vast conference room. Like most Irken décor, the room was filled with various shades of mauves and pinks. The table was large, extending from the entrance to the back of the room. If someone were to speak from one end of it to another, they would nearly have to shout to be heard. Luckily, Irkens were quite adept in this skill.

The chairs filled up gradually with stoic looking Invaders, their skeptical eyes acknowledging one another in silence. No longer the young, naïve Irken Elites they had been five years ago at the Great Assigning, they liked to consider themselves hardened soldiers, capable of destroying worlds and faithfully serving their Almighty Tallest with efficiency and grace. They wordlessly jockeyed for position, regarding one another with aloof contempt. They sat ramrod straight, pointing their chins in the air as their undeniable arrogance practically wafted from their crisp pink uniforms.

Zim paused outside of the door for a moment. He took in a long, deep breath. He was slightly woozy from the change in atmosphere, but he ignored the feeling in favor for his signature egoism. He released the breath silently. Then, with a determined look on his face, Zim changed his posture so that he stood ramrod straight with his chest jutting forward slightly and his head tilted back in a silent display of well-practiced conceited mannerisms. Without further ado, he marched assertively into the room, and coolly regarded his fellow ilk with a casual and uninterested glance in their general direction. For good measure, he scoffed at the sight of them and sat down at an open space. The Invaders rustled uneasily, some of them shooting Zim looks of disgust as he settled into his chair.

Invader Larb in particular, who had grown three centimeters over the past several years, smirked and scooted away from the diminutive outcast.

Further down the table, two of the Invaders, Grapa and Flobee, quietly took note of Zim.

In a barely audible whisper, Grapa muttered, "I thought he had been exiled. What is he doing  _here_?"

Flobee glared daggers at him. "In order to carry out the plan successfully, he must be in attendance. You know  _that_ …" he hissed menacingly. The ominous reply hung in the air between the two of them and Grapa sniffed and crossed his arms indignantly.

The remainder of the group continued in their silent standoff, occasionally sneaking glances at one another, then at Zim.

Said Irken exile kept his eyes pinned to the briefcase before him, excited to share his master plan with the Tallest. Perhaps his fellow Invaders could learn a thing or two from his obvious superiority. The thought caused any unstifled dread to melt away in an instant. Zim's antennae perked up and his chest unclenched briefly as fresh relief and confidence coursed through him. He almost dropped his stiff, dominant front, but regained his composure quickly. His PAK just barely brushed the back of the chair and his hands were folded firmly on the table in from of him.

A few more moments later, the rousing chorus of awkward silence was interrupted by an abrupt change in lighting. The Irkens began to look around in confusion at the inexplicably dimmed lights, before whipping their heads collectively towards the other end of the room. They stared with awe at the sight of stage lights descending and smoke machines materializing seemingly out of nowhere. Lasers flickered by, illuminating the little stage area in a brilliant display of light. The Irkens took in this show with a mixture of bewilderment and uneasiness. As if the presentation couldn't possibly be more tacky or overdone, strange electronic music blasted from the speakers and they began to stiffen slightly in their seats. Then, in a dramatic display of arrival true to their style, the Almighty Tallest rose from a panel in the floor.

They watched their army keenly, striking poses as they appeared before them. Considering that the gather consisted of no more than twenty or so Irkens, the sight was almost comical.

Finally, when the two had reached the podium at the center of the room, everything ceased as quickly as it had begun. The stage lights swiftly returned to their respective slot within the wall as did the fog machines, the lasers disappeared abruptly, and the music cut out. The Irkens blinked as their eyes adjusted to the original lighting.

Each Invader, excluding Zim, then lowered their heads and wiggled their antennae as a sign of respect. Zim looked around at them in confusion before reluctantly following suit. He had a stupid grin plastered on his face and was mainly overjoyed to see his Almighty Tallest in the flesh after so long. He fluttered his arms obnoxiously in the air in order to get their attention.

The pair continued to stare down at their legion of Elite Soldiers, the best the Irken military had to offer. Red wore a smug expression as he examined the group before him. Purple more or less did the same, but his face was covered in pink frosting and he had half a cupcake midway to his mouth. Both casually overlooked Zim's little arms as he waved enthusiastically at them from the other end of the table.

"My Tallest! It's you! Hey! Look at me!" Zim chanted, pushing the Invader next to him out of the way so that his leaders could see him better. The irate Irken, whose name was Skutch, sneered and recoiled from Zim as if he were harboring some revolting disease.

The Tallest gazed at him vacantly, before turning to the rest of the crowd.

"Welcome, all Irken Invaders!" Red announced.

"Or should we say, all who are still alive!" Purple blurted, spitting crumbs as he spoke. "Am I right?" He guffawed and began licking his fingers. Red viciously backhanded him across the face before pleasantly returning his attention to the group.

"Anyway…" He glanced at Purple, who was rubbing his left temple with one hand and clinging to the edge of the podium with the other, "I'm sure you all know why you are gathered here."

The Irkens waited expectantly, never breaking their gaze.

"I figured we would start our little discussion by explaining just how you managed to blend in with the indigenous life on your assigned planets."

The sound of rustling papers and shifting bodies broke the silence as the Invaders began to gather the condensed evidence of their work. They perked up at the opportunity to present the work that went into their respective missions before their peers and the Tallest. And thus, the conference had begun without a hitch.

* * *

Meanwhile, GIR was escorted down the hall via his antenna, which was still being held tightly in the guard's iron grip. His little legs swung uselessly as he watched the passing scenery.

"Where we goin'?" he asked pleasantly. The guard grunted in reply, refusing to dignify him with a real answer.

The tastefully decorated halls and corridors slowly melded into more industrial, bare walls and rooms with closed doors. The guard finally stopped at a large set of double doors and swiped a card, allowing him access.

The gargantuan room was sterile and cold. The vast amount of grey, metal machinery whirred away and gave it an air of gloom. This was only exacerbated by the droves of Vortian prisoners working steadily and begrudgingly on various Irken apparatuses.

They walked to another area, which served as a factory for repairs to damaged technology and basic maintenance. As they approached, an older looking male Irken with a furrowed brow and a long lab coat appeared and stood next to the guard. They spoke in hushed whispers for a brief moment. Then, GIR was deposited on a small conveyer belt and taken into a large machine for scanning. The old Irken scientist then spoke to another engineer who stood nearby, recording the data transcribed from the Invaders' Information Retrieval Units over the past five years.

"Don't scan this one," he ordered sullenly. The engineer paused in confusion. "Dismantle it. The spare parts can be used for other SIR units." Offering no clarification, the scientist ambled away, leaving the engineer no choice but to abide by his orders.

Inside the large machine, GIR joyfully looked around him. The interior of the machine contained a large cable that attached to ports hidden on the back of the SIR units' heads, scanning their memory banks for information. Any helpful data would then be transmitted to the Irken Armada to assist them with the Organic Sweep when the time came. Elsewhere in the cramped space, infrared scanners checked each one for defects, alerting the engineer if any repairs were needed. Finally, a sterilization chamber prepared each robot for their return to their owners, newly shined and sanitized.

The whirring mechanism grinded to halt, though, as GIR looked around in wonder. The conveyer belt he was sitting on began to move again, towards a light at the other end of the machine. When the light of the room touched down on GIR, he looked up to see three Vortian slaves surrounding him. They held various tools used for the dismantling of faulty technology.

GIR, for all his poor judgement, was somehow able to discern his current situation and was appropriately alarmed at the sight.

"AHHHH!" he wailed in his high-pitched little voice and attempted to jump off the conveyer belt. One of the Vortians grabbed him by the leg and slammed him onto a table beside it, causing the little robot to squirm under his grip.

"Oh, no you don't," he mumbled huffily. The others held him down as well, awaiting the first to make his move to deactivate the SIR unit.

A large Irken tool that slightly resembled a screwdriver emerged from the Vortian's pocket and dipped down towards GIR's head, namely towards the memory chip he held within. Before he could make contact, though, the robot activated the jets in his feet. The table lit up in an explosion of blue fire and the Vortians jumped back in alarm. Breaking free from the arms that pinned him down, GIR frantically flew up, higher and higher, until he saw an opening among the rafters up above.

The ceiling rattled as GIR fled into the air ducts, causing every occupant of the room to raise their heads in alarm. The metallic knocking continued for several seconds, then ceased suddenly. A shroud of silence followed.

Then, suddenly, "YOU LET IT ESCAPE?"

The Vortians turned to see the old Irken scientist, rage plastered across his wrinkled face. He held onto a long staff with an electric current ablaze on one end. He used this to savagely electrocute the first Vortian, who dropped his screwdriver as he fell to his knees in agony.

"Do you realize what this means? It could be anywhere! A malfunctioning SIR unit on the loose is one of the most unpredictable threats imaginable!"

* * *

Larb stood abruptly, clearing his throat and turning to face Red and Purple.

"With all due respect, My Tallest, I feel inclined to mention that there are some of us who have successfully completed our missions. It has been five years, after all."

Zim glared daggers at him and began an overdramatized mockery of his words behind his back. In the last hour of supposedly productive and essential reporting, the only thing the Invaders had managed to do was passive aggressively one up each other and kiss up to the Tallest in a fiercely competitive display of immaturity. It was just as well, considering that Irkens were an inherently prideful and solitary race, preferring to work alone instead of collaborating in groups. It was only to be expected from their kind.

Larb's eyes flicked back to Zim's and he offered him a snarky smile before returning to the Tallest. "As the tallest and most accomplished Invader present, I feel that we are wasting precious time away from our missions to discuss these trivial matters."

The Tallest stared at him for a moment. "Umm, thank you Invader Larb, for sharing that. Now—"

"Hey," interrupted another Irken, who Zim recognized from the Great Assigning as Invader Spleen. He pointed accusingly at Larb. "He is not the tallest Invader! I have at least two millimeters of antennae length on him!"

As if a ticking time bomb had finally detonated, the previously stiff and well-mannered group of Invaders dropped their facades. In an instant, they had broken off into little arguing matches amongst each other, comparing the length of their feelers and lamenting on their strenuous accomplishments in the name of the Empire.

"BE QUIET!" Purple shouted, spitting crumbs onto the floor as he spoke.

At once, they ceased their petty squabbles and stared at their leaders with a sort of stunned guilt plastered across their faces.

"Now then!" Red continued with vigor, "Let's move on to talk about…"

He unexpectedly went silent, his last sentence trailing off quietly. Some of the attendees snapped out of their ashamed dazes and looked up at him. Red felt his antennae twitch involuntarily toward the air ducts. The rest followed his gaze up at the ceiling, where a steadily growing clanging noise could be heard above them. The room fell silent as a wave of tense confusion drifted over them.

The sound grew louder and louder and they unconsciously held their breath in anticipation. After another few seconds, one of the panels crashed onto the table, sending a silver, indistinct blur down with it. A hollow thud sounded, dislodging several bizarre items from the canister in GIR's head. The Invaders observed the strange sight, mouths agape. A few of the contents that had previously been stored within GIR now littered the floor and table amongst the rubble of the ruined panel.

"Mastah! I found you!" GIR stood up amid the mess he had created and walked across the table to where Zim sat frozen in his seat. The jubilant robot wrapped his arms around him a tight hug, but the stunned Irken did not reciprocate the gesture.

"GIR." Zim sounded like the wind had been knocked out him.

He then turned to his leaders, petrified. "My Tallest! My sincerest apologies!"

Still at a loss, he shoved his servant off him with a grunt and tried to desperately regain his poised demeanor. "GIR! What are you doing? Leave immediately! We are very busy!"

"It's just as well, Zim," Red stated with a hint of irritation. Zim whipped his head back in his direction, looking a bit deflated. "We'll take this…opportunity…to dismiss the meeting for now. We'll break for foodening and return to our discussion afterwards."

Before the tiny Irken could protest, both the Tallests disappeared out a back door in a sudden and hasty eagerness, no doubt to raid the cafeteria.

Zim stood up shakily. He tried to ignore the haughty display of zipper-shaped smiles that seemed to close in around him.

A voice piped up suddenly. "Nice SIR unit, Zim. Is that the advanced model?" A smattering of cruel laughter ensued.

Zim kept his eyes furiously pinned to the ground. His mortification mingled unsettlingly with his typically unchecked rage. His arms hung numbly at his sides and he felt his lip involuntarily lift into an infuriated snarl. As he shook with fury, he tried to remind himself that it would be uncouth to maim one of his fellow soldiers in the presence of the Tallest.

"Ah, yes! I've been looking for one like that! I could really use a good failure," Tenn chimed in nasally, evoking more cackles from the assemblage.

Zim's pitiful quantity of patience was even more diminutive than he was, only stretching so far until he snapped. At their continued mockery, he suddenly lifted his head and whipped around to face them. His ruby eyes glared daggers at the group.

"INSOLENT FOOLS! Only ZIM is capable enough to be assigned with a secret mission! Your brains couldn't possibly comprehend the level of technology the Tallest have entrusted ME with!" As he said this, GIR ran headfirst into a wall, causing them to break out in another chorus of whooping laughter.

Zim's feelers stood straight up in rage as he turned and stormed out of the room with GIR in tow, leaving them behind. Once out of their sight, he slowed a bit until he was stiffly stalking down the hallway, his face composed of stone.

Two gloved claws shoved GIR forward with palpable anger and frustration while the robot hung his head guiltily. GIR's downcast cyan eyes and drooping antennae were reminiscent of a newly reprimanded child who didn't quite know what he had done wrong. The two winded their way down the labyrinth of corridors and conference rooms until they were outside again. Even though Zim was long out of hearing range, the echo of laughter still followed him.

-x-

After a few moments, the last Irken had cleared out and the conference room stood empty and quiet. Broken chunks of panel still resided on the table. The objects in GIR's head that had been dislodged from his fall still littered the floor, half hidden beneath the chairs. Among these were a paperclip, part of a chewed-up rubber piggy, six gummy bears, and a little black recording device.


	3. Of Ulterior Motives and Intergalactic Eavesdropping

Zim sullenly stomped into the teleporter, still pushing GIR ahead of him. After a second, they reappeared inside the docking ring and began heading towards the Voot. Once they reached it, Zim opened the hatch and gruffly shoved the robot inside.

"I'm sorry, Master." GIR sounded oddly sincere.

He climbed in after GIR and started rifling through the storage chamber. "Of all the stupid, moronic ways you could stuff this up for me!" Zim scrounged for some form of distraction from the humiliation he had just endured. "And, UGH! In front of the Tallest! How could you, GIR?"

After failing to find what he was looking for, Zim turned to look back at his servant, who had remained silent during the verbal assault. "Those bad guys were gonna hurt me…" he said finally in a meek, childlike voice.

Zim growled, feeling his anger bubble beneath the surface again. "Those 'guys' were just doing maintenance on your PATHETIC, malfunctioning AI chip! What a useless waste of Irken equipment! PAH! If I had any sense at all, I'd leave you here!"

GIR looked hurt. His turquoise eyes narrowed, and he hung his head in shame. Before he could allow himself to think too hard about his actions, though, Zim climbed out of the Voot Runner and slammed the windshield down behind him.

With all the remaining strength his voice would allow, he yelled behind him without a passing glance. "GIR! Don't leave the ship for any reason! And stay out of my antennae until this  _stupid_  convention is OVER!"

* * *

Meanwhile, Dib had spent an obscene amount of time trying desperately to establish a connection between his location on Earth and the unknown whereabouts his extraterrestrial rival. More specifically, the tiny recording device he had departed with. Now, at long last, Dib had picked up on the signal and sat cross-legged on his bed with his laptop. His muscles were stiff from sitting in one position for so long and he stifled a yawn.

He lowered his headphones over his ears and listened intently, involuntarily holding his breath in concentration. For a time, he didn't hear anything, and he began to grow frustrated by the lack of audio. Eventually, though, the faint sound of mutters and muffled dialogue could be heard. He leaned forward and cocked his head to the side as he strained to listen.

Expecting to only hear GIR and Zim, Dib was puzzled by the multiple voices that came through the headset instead. He perked up as he heard a very familiar voice pipe up over the buzz of multiple conversations.  _Zim_.

It struck him immediately that, whoever they were, they weren't speaking any human language. Dib listened to the terse, clipped speech and determined that they were speaking in their native dialect.

Something about the sound of it struck a chord of fear in Dib. Their language sounded so…so… _alien_ , for lack of a better word. Dib shuddered and continued to listen to a conversation he did not understand. After a few moments, Zim could be heard screaming something in Irken and Dib instinctively repressed a snicker at how utterly ridiculous Zim's voice sounded speaking that rough language. More voices spoke, then something that sounded reminiscent to laughter broke out in a great wave.

_If only I could understand what they were saying_. Dib's brow furrowed as he hopped off his bed and paced the room restlessly. He could assume that the voices belonged to more Irkens and he was slightly unnerved after observing the conversation. It only served to remind him that Zim was not the only one of these strange demons to reside among the stars, unbeknownst to humanity save for him and Gaz.

He stopped pacing after a moment and a smile dawned on his face as he remembered something. Years ago, Dib had been able to successfully decipher Zim's plan to remotely control the Massive by using Tak's ship to gain information. This included translating Irken text into English.

With a wave of newfound enthusiasm, Dib scurried out of his room. He ran downstairs and burst outside into the windy, unpredictable March air. His quick, panting breaths appeared suspended in little clouds as he ran to the separated garage building. He threw up the hatch and immediately eyed the tarp-covered mechanism in the corner with zeal.

The ship had been an ongoing project for Dib for years as he continued to discover more and more about the mysteries of Irken engineering. While it was fully functional, Dib was still daunted by the prospect of taking it out solo. When he could successfully bribe her, Gaz would occasionally give him piloting tips and the two would take brief test runs out into space. And though she treated it like a chore, he still loved these little outings with his sister more than anything else in the world.

In fact, a map of the known galaxy was pinned to Dib's ceiling, right above his bed. Every night, Dib ritualistically gazed up at it and imagined everything unknown and unexplored. Yet seeing that galaxy in person made the poster on his ceiling seem more like a crude caricature, for nothing could do it justice. The sheer vastness and beauty of space simply entranced Dib.

And he took pride in his stolen spaceship, his gateway to the stars. Upon entering the garage, the boy unconsciously brushed one hand lightly over the exterior of the modified Spittle Runner before stepping inside. In front of the control panel, he pressed the screen with his index finger and the light of it illuminated Dib's hopeful face in a brilliant shade of red. He quickly pulled up the speech translator and hesitantly put the headphones back on.

He arranged for the translator to pick up on the voices and automatically convert them into English. Then, he re-covered the ship with a tarp and headed back to his room to establish a connection between the ship and his computer. He preferred to view the conversation in his room, tucked out of view from any passerby or, God forbid, his father. He needed to know what Zim was plotting with these other Irkens.

* * *

Zim reappeared in the conference room as if nothing had occurred mere moments before. Nevertheless, he looked rather disgruntled and he kept his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Gradually, the other Irkens trickled in as well and surrounded the table once again. The Tallest arrived shortly after and the meeting picked up where they had left off.

For the next couple of hours, the Invaders went around and presented the findings of their missions to the Tallest and other fellow Elites in a face-to-face evaluation. Doubly determined to regain his full equanimity, Zim had drifted into something of a standoffish demeanor. As a result, his outbursts became somewhat limited and inadvertently gave the others less fuel for their fire. Nevertheless, it was still not enough.

After reporting in to the Tallest and explaining his tactics to the rest of the group, Invader Skutch sat down, shooting them a smug look. Like many of the others, he had successfully conquered his planet long ago. His presence was merely a formality.

Zim squirmed beside him. He was just about to present the findings of his own mission when Tallest Purple cut him off.

"That's just great…okay, I think we're done here. Uh…good job!"

"Yes. We speak for all of you when we say, your presence today was no accident," Tallest Red chimed. Something about this statement seemed out of place. Some of the Irkens shot each other looks, then glanced at Zim.

Zim was oblivious to their stares. Gripping his case in both claws, he looked up at them both, stricken. "But my Tallest, you have yet to evaluate me."

Purple's smile drooped a bit and they both looked over at the tiny pest in mild annoyance. "Erm, well, okay, Zim. Make it quick."

Zim's face lit up anew as he prepared to launch into a detailed rundown of his mission; the very mission he had devoted his life and expertise to. His notes and schematics were immaculate and taken with great care and attention to detail.

If any of the other Irkens had half his dedication, the entire galaxy would have been conquered long ago. Alas, the only things Zim lacked other than their respect was his own common sense. Combined with his muddled reasoning and obliviousness, it only made sense that Zim was regarded as he was. Not to mention his dangerous tendency to cause staggering destruction in the wake of his continued efforts.

He took out a tiny device and set it in front of him on the table. A hologram of the Earth appeared. Zim pointed to the Pacific Ocean, then to the Atlantic.

"As you may remember, my Tallest, exactly two years and thirty-six days ago I mentioned that this substance is quite common on earth. Composed of one-part hydrogen and two parts oxygen, not only does it carry harmful toxins, but 71% of the planet is COVERED in it! Oh, and the best part: the lifeforms rely on this 'water' for survival."

Zim paused for dramatic effect. "I have devised an ingenious plan to rid the entire Earth of its 'water!' Not only will my plot make it suitable for Irken life, but the PATHETIC inhabitants on the planet will surely be brought to their knees at the hands of ZIM!"

Zim glanced around himself again, smiling impishly. Granted, even he must admit his schemes had grown a bit dry in recent time as he scrounged for ideas. He refused to allow a single smidgen of this to show through in his presentation, though. He eyed the gathering expectantly, waiting for their reactions.

Instead, what he saw was that a few of the soldiers standing closest to the door were in the process of quietly slinking out of the room. It was clear that they did not wish to waste their time listening to the overzealous Elite and those who remained seemed to do so out of morbid curiosity. Zim's antennae drooped slightly at the sight and he automatically turned towards the podium. The Tallest did nothing to reprimand the departing soldiers; they simply watched them leave. Their own expressions were graced with boredom and impatience.

Zim cleared his throat, a tad dampened, and continued. "Anyhow…"

He pressed a button on his sleeve. But instead of the hologram of earth transforming into the first sequence of the schematics he had formed weeks before, nothing happened. Zim hesitated and pressed the button again with no result. He began to sweat a little as he tried to move his presentation along without its aid. "I've dabbled in the area before, but for a different cause. All I need to execute this brilliant water plan is—"

"Wait…" Beside him, Skutch snickered and Zim hesitantly turned to face him. Even sitting, Skutch was about Zim's height. He looked mildly amused as something dawned on him. "Did you just say that the planet you were assigned to is 'not suitable for Irken life?'" He glanced at the Tallest and started to snigger again.

A few of the others joined in while Zim became suddenly engrossed with the watch-like apparatus that controlled his hologram device. He started messing with the buttons, but the hologram simply wouldn't switch to the next phase.

"Why yes, Skutch," Zim said in a distracted, albeit irritated tone. "You dare question our Tallest? Only they would be so wise as to choose this harrowing mission for the amazing ZIM!" The hologram began to warble around the edges and sparks flew from the device it was projected on.

"And how far away is this planet, Zim?" Grapa asked from across the room. His voice was heavy with mock interest. Like Skutch, he felt the need to 'humor' Zim in the most passive aggressive way he could.

"Uhh…" Zim mashed some more buttons on his watch, pretending to barely acknowledge the voice. "About a six-month journey without hyperdrive initiated."

He began to feel the many sets of eyes pinned on him while he struggled to move his speech along. Zim remained focused on the remote attached to his wrist. He pressed the correct sequence of buttons over and over, but to no avail.

"Ah, that will be useful. A toxic waste dump in the middle of nowhere…" a voice mumbled beside Zim, just loud enough for him to hear. A few titters flitted throughout the room.

Larb sat primly and watched the diminutive Elite struggle. He smirked and rested his clasped hands in front of him on the table, deciding to take the thinly-veiled mockery up a notch.

"Enlighten me, Zim," he asked, feigning innocence. "Why is it that we have all successfully completed our respective missions, or are at least in the final stages, while you…well, you are struggling to even put together a simple presentation detailing your own conquest?"

Zim bristled beside him "Urrhhgg!" He finally ripped off his watch and chucked it across the room. He balled his gloved hands into fists and whipped around until his enraged face was inches from Larb's.

"SHUT UP!  _Shut up!_  As if you had the mental capacity to take on ZIM'S mission!" he panted and grabbed Larb's collar in his fist.

But the other Invader only grinned smugly back at him, completely unfazed. He casually flicked his ruby eyes past Zim's left shoulder and the latter Irken turned to follow his gaze tentatively. He looked up in time to make eye contact with the Tallest as the hologram beside him disappeared entirely.

"Don't make a scene, Zim," Tallest Purple said finally, as if scolding a small child instead of a seasoned Elite soldier.

Everything was silent while the remaining Irkens took in Zim's somewhat plaintive expression. Collecting himself, Zim inhaled sharply in preparation to say something else pertaining to his evaluation. Suddenly, sparks flew from the little hologram device and the gadget promptly imploded, singeing the table and sending shrapnel flying in various directions.

Zim took a deep breath and chuckled nervously. "Well, then. I suppose now would be a good time to go over my notes on the filthy indigenous life!" Zim reached into his case again, claws shaking, but was stopped by an impatient grunt from the podium.

"You know, I think we've seen enough Zim." He looked up and immediately made eye contact with the Tallest. They looked apathetically down at him.

"But…but wait! You haven't even given me a chance to—"

Red waved his hand lazily in Zim's direction. "Yes, well. Funny how things work out. Eh, you pass Zim!" Red turned to Purple "Now let's go get some more of that slorbees pudding in the cafeteria before they run out!"

Zim stared helplessly around him as the two prepared to leave, followed by the rest of the Invaders. They all stood up and began shuffling out of the room, some chortling quietly. Still gripping his carrycase in both hands, he felt his antennae steadily droop until they brushed his shoulders. A few moments passed him by and Zim found himself all alone in the immense and echoing room, staring vacantly ahead of him with his life's work held closely to his chest.

* * *

_Well, that was fucking dumb_. Dib sat at his computer, listening to the rustling noises of the Irkens as they filed out of the room. After the shuffling ceased and it became evident that nobody remained in the vicinity, he warily removed his headphones. For a few moments, Dib looked down at his hands and tried to process the strange conversation he had wandered in on. Why did they even bother inviting him?

Despite his combined fear and curiosity, the boy couldn't help but wonder why his rival was treated as he was, amongst a race of creatures just as petty and obnoxious as he was. The way he was taunted was scarily reminiscent of Dib's past experiences. But these taunts weren't distributed for the mere sake of immaturity; they were cunning and sly. The kind that could get inside one's head and tear apart their very psyche with enough effort.

Mechanically, he rose from his desk and wandered out of his room. The smell of pizza wafted into the hallway and hit him immediately as he opened the door and Dib was struck with the realization that he hadn't eaten since that morning.

Plodding downstairs, he could see Gaz sitting at the table with her GameSlave in one hand and a can of Poop Cola in another. The Bloaty's box lay open on the counter, displaying six slices of greasy, congealed pizza. He quietly joined her at the table with a plate.

Deep in thought, Dib guided a slice of pizza to his mouth.

Perhaps most unsettling was the alteration in his voice that Dib had never heard before. Behind closed doors, Zim reported in to his Tallest almost daily. Out in the world, Zim answered to no one; and he made a point of this whenever Dib was around. But Dib had accidentally stumbled upon the key, unlocking a side of his enemy he had never seen before. He had never heard Zim speak so humbly before—so timidly. And that peculiar sense of desperation in his voice near the end. He felt as though he was trapped in a strange haze of emotion and he tried to brush off the perplexing sense of pity he felt upon listening to Zim's pleas and protests.

After a moment, the obnoxious music coming from Gaz's ever-present GameSlave ceased and she glanced over the screen at her brother. Dib's glazed eyes stared somewhere past his sister's shoulder and into the kitchen.

"What's the matter with  _you_?" As usual, her tone sounded strikingly apathetic with just a hint of well-placed irritability.

Instead of answering, Dib just brushed her off wordlessly and took to picking at the sleeve of his jacket. His elbow rested on the tabletop and his hand cradled his chin.

Gaz put the GameSlave down and glared at him. "I asked you a question. What the hell is your problem?" The chair scuffed against the floor as Dib stood up and began heading towards the stairs again, abandoning his half-eaten slice of pizza. He didn't want to speak to anyone right now when he had so much on his mind.

At the same time, though, he wondered just how bad he must have looked in order to peak Gaz's interest this much. Only a year younger than he was, she had withdrawn herself impossibly deeper into her own little world in recent years. She barely spoke at all anymore, especially when it concerned someone else.

"It's nothing, Gaz." He disappeared up the stairs and scurried into his room again. Gaz glowered at his departing form skeptically before returning to her game again.

Dib sat down on his bed and unwrapped the cord from his headphones. Positioning his laptop in front of him, he once again adjusted the headphones over his ears and listened fervidly for any voices. As an afterthought, he flicked the little red switch to record any conversation he happened to overhear.

After an hour of listening to nothing but static, though, Dib began to nod off.

* * *

During nighttime, the planet Conventia grew quite dark. The streets were empty near the conference building and the only creature in sight was a tiny figure trudging dejectedly towards the teleporters. Zim's feelers drooped until they brushed against his back and his shoulders sagged slightly as exhaustion wore on him. He silently cursed this development and plodded on, falling into a deep reverie.

Before he could leave Conventia, Zim would be required to pilot his Voot to the planet's surface for maintenance and fuel-check. He scowled to himself. As ironic as it was, the Elite wanted nothing more than to just return to Earth then and there. More specifically, to his mission. Where he had a purpose; where he was needed by the Empire for his skill and expertise…nobody could take that away from him.

And Irkens were notorious problem-solvers. Time was precious. It could not be expended on emotions; only the next solution. Zim smirked to himself. No more games. No more Dib. Zim would return to Earth and he  _would_  conquer it. He would work tirelessly, day and night. He would even consider leaving the Hi Skool. He knew enough about Earth culture by now. He didn't need to waste his time sitting through classes all day. It was unproductive. His time and energy were not being utilized properly there. If only he had come to this conclusion long before…

He would prove them wrong. He would not fail his Tallest.

For a time, the only noise was that of his booted feet dragging across the large open area dividing the conference hall from the teleportation structure. Zim kept his head lowered and brow furrowed while he lost himself in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Suddenly, Zim's right antenna perked up involuntarily as he registered a vague rustling sound. He paused briefly before quickly dismissing it and falling back into his stupor.

After about one hundred or so paces, he heard another noise from his other side. He glanced towards the direction of the source, just in time to see a shadow dart across the streetlight that lined the walkway. This time, his eyes bulged a bit and he could feel himself falling into a familiar state of paranoia. He quickened his pace to match his growing heartbeat and set his eyes to his destination, which was slowly emerging into view.

Finally, Zim began to hear whispers, accompanied by more rustling. He couldn't determine the source this time; the noises seemed to surround him from every angle. This time, his fear got the best of him and he spun on his heels and whipped around. His large eyes anxiously flicked around, scanning the empty area before him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary and his heart began to slow down as he slowly turned back around and spotted an open teleporter. He stepped inside and immediately felt more relaxed as he reappeared at the docking ring in the blink of an eye. Quickly casting his prior worries aside, Zim strode in the direction of his Voot Runner.

-x-

In an astounding feat of obedience, Zim's malfunctioning SIR unit had apparently remained in the ship as instructed. The weary Irken was somewhat dumbfounded to find GIR still fully intact and in the cockpit watching cartoons on the miniature transmission screen.

Nevertheless, he still stomped past the robot without so much as acknowledging him and proceeded towards the captain's chair. Starting up the Voot Runner, Zim prepared to pilot it towards the planet's surface. A few moments went by in complete silence, save for the soft rumble of the engine and GIR's cartoon program. Zim hunched over his control screen and, with delicate, masterful flicks of his fingers, expertly docked it near the repair and tune-up bay next to the convention hall. Other ships lined this area as well, all with the same intention.

During these night hours on Conventia, many of the Irkens residing on the planet took the opportunity to perform maintenance on their ships before they departed for the stars again. Others spent this time in absolute solitude after being forced to converse in groups. They could be found lit up amid the controls of their space vessels fiddling with little tablets and other such gadgets. Only a small number of them actually rested, taking advantage of their option to sleep despite it not being mandatory for survival.

Zim glumly found himself lumped into the latter group despite the fact that he would have detested the mere idea of sleep in any other circumstance. Typically, an Irken PAK operated constantly to keep the lifeform charged and devoid of fatigue. Rest was only essential if said Irken was ill, severely injured, or its energy had been grossly overexerted. This occurred when there was an override in the PAK's mechanics, stretching it beyond its limits.

Zim had overridden his own PAK after undergoing an impressive cocktail of emotions in a mere day, including nervousness, mortification, and insatiable rage. For good measure, these feelings were additionally wrapped in a dense layer of absolute denial. What Zim could not deny, however, was that he was drained of his usual stamina and filled with an overwhelming need to rest.

Accepting that he had no energy to work on his ship at the time being, he instead ambled towards one corner of the confined space and began to rifle through a drawer. GIR had yet to break his gaze from the tiny television screen. Mutually, Zim hadn't offered his servant so much as scowl since he had arrived. Now, the Elite seemed engrossed in his unknown task. As he searched in silence, it became increasingly evident that he was indeed sulking.

He apparently found what he was looking for after a few minutes and continued to ignore GIR as he walked into a very small compartment attached to the cockpit and slammed the hatch down with a bit too much fervor.

After a moment, Zim reemerged clad in what appeared to be half of his uniform. Absent of his gloves and boots, Zim padded through the miniscule space in his black stockings and scratched casually at the base of his left antenna. He began hunting around again in another little compartment of the ship, returning with a plush looking pillow and the blanket GIR had covered him with at the beginning of their trip.

He eyed his large reclinable control chair with a strange twinge of reluctance. It was as if he were giving in to a dangerous impulse by allowing himself this opportunity to rest. Not to mention his seat resided right beside GIR, who still hadn't spoken a word to him. Exhaustion overruled him, though, and Zim begrudgingly stomped in the direction of the chair and fixed his eyes ahead of him angrily as he was forced to walk past his SIR unit to get to the seat.

_Only smeets and sick weaklings need to sleep_ , he thought bitterly to himself as he reclined back and stared distantly at the ceiling of the Voot. He began to fret over the maintenance his ship required before he departed Conventia in mere hours. An achingly long moment of tense silence passed between the two of them. GIR kept his eyes glued to the television, utterly expressionless.

Then, Zim shifted his weight awkwardly and sat back up in his chair. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and produced the item he had been searching for before: a package of what the Dib liked to call "Irken Fun Dip."

Zim pretended to watch the inane Earth cartoon program GIR had saved into the ship's already infinitesimal memory drive as he opened it. They both avoided speaking to one another, intertwined in some sort of juvenile stalemate. After yet another moment of awkward silence between them, Zim absently picked up a stick.

_He doesn't have the attention span needed to hold grudges. He's always like this around the television_. But even during the commercial break, GIR still refused to break his gaze from the tv and Zim began to second guess himself. He sighed and allowed himself to pass a fleeting glance towards his servant.

Then, meekly and without making eye contact, he offered the package towards him. GIR accepted the peace offering in the same nonchalant manner and popped the second stick into his mouth.

As Zim brought his own to his lips, the sweet taste causing him to salivate a bit, he began to feel his body melt back into the chair. After a moment of both sucking on their licking sticks, the little robot turned ever so slightly and smiled sweetly at Zim before returning to the television and continuing with his media-fueled obsession. After he had already turned away, a rare and very miniscule smile flickered briefly across Zim's face as well. He leaned back in his seat as the light of the television cast over them both in blue flickering waves and a much-needed aura of tranquility filled the Voot Runner.

* * *

The convention hall that formerly held the horde of Invaders stood empty and barren, shrouded beneath the night sky draped in an astounding layer of darkness. Scarcely a single star was visible, and the scattered lampposts did little to guide the way to the building.

All was silent and empty, save for a soft shuffle of feet. Then, in the darkness, the thin silhouette of an Irken appeared in the doorway. Using its PAK's mechanical limbs to stealthily unlock the door to the building, its shadow scurried quickly to the old conference room where they had met just hours earlier. After a moment of paranoid tiptoeing, it slowly sat down at the table. A few more seconds passed and another one appeared. Following suit, the second Irken joined the first and gave a solemn gaze around the darkened conference room.

An ominous silence hung heavily in the air, broken only by the rustling of their uniforms and small noises their breaths made as they sighed and locked their eyes onto the door. Eventually, two more Irkens appeared, quiet as earth mice. Then another. Finally, after several minutes, the entire conference room was filled with them. Then, just as surreptitiously as their predecessors, the Tallest slunk into the room as well.

Mere nondescript outlines in the darkness of the room, the Invaders turned to face their leaders. The figures of the two rulers demanded respect as their shadows loomed over the other Irkens in a menacing arc. Only their eyes shown bright and fear-inducing.

"I'm sure you all know the real reason you're here," Red said finally.

The others rustled a bit in their seats, some nodding their heads in the darkness.

"One day of listening to Zim make a fool of himself is a small price to pay for what we will accomplish tonight. Is there not a reason Zim wasn't invited to last year's Progress Convention? Or the year before?"

Tallest Purple glanced at Red, not sensing the rhetorical nature of his question. "Is it because we hadn't thought of this plan yet?"

Red's eyes narrowed in the darkness. Purple grunted in pain as his co-ruler's gauntlet-clad arm collided harshly with his midriff.

A voice spoke up from among the gathering. "My Tallest. Reconnaissance went smoothly, and we can confirm that the defective is now residing within his ship." Larb's tone was laced with venom. More determined than ever to gain the approval from his Tallest, he had scrambled for a role in their scheme.

There was a brief pause as the group mulled this over, then another voice spoke up.

"My Tallest, while the attempt to deactivate his SIR unit was unsuccessful, we do not believe it will hinder the mission. After we expose him to the J-636 toxin, his biological shell will gradually become too weakened to continue functioning. The cause of death will appear to be due to natural causes and will be documented as such by the Control Brains." The others could be heard acknowledging this approvingly and some even snickered softly.

The Tallest imperturbably regarded the voice with a look of malicious approval and the two glowing sets of red and purple eyes were soon accompanied by wicked zipper-shaped sneers.

* * *

Dib had started to nod off at his desk. His head dipped downwards towards the open magazine in his lap and he could sense the cold air begin to seep in through his open window.

Suddenly, an abrupt noise through the headphones jolted him awake. Dib gasped and sat up straight in his chair, immediately glancing at the translator screen.

Quiet whispers hissed vehemently in Dib's ear in that same demonic language and he immediately noted the lack of Zim's distinct croaky voice among the throng. He shivered and set his gaze on the computer monitor as their words appeared on the screen in English.

"Excellent. If all goes as planned, Zim will be a threat to the Irken Empire no longer." The cryptic voices crooned their approval to Tallest Red's words. "Spearheaded by Invader Larb, it is essential that this mission be executed at discreetly as possible. We cannot afford to have anything come back to haunt us. It must look like an accident."

Dib's stomach turned, and he groggily rubbed his left eye. What? What is this? He suddenly felt a stab of unease hit him. He quickly realized that he was intruding upon some sort of scheme. And from what he could gather, it was against Zim.

"Yeah. We have a reputation to maintain," chimed Tallest Purple in an attempt to be a larger part of the conversation.

Red began to take control again. "It goes without saying that Zim cannot be trusted enough to stay alive. He singlehandedly ruined Operation Impending Doom I, caused multiple blackouts, and was responsible for the deaths of two Tallests before us."

"Even in exile, Zim has been the reason for far too much destruction. His false mission was not enough to prevent him from wreaking havoc on Operation Impending Doom II. The proof? He has caused extensive damage to the Armada, wiping out half of it with an unknown planet he called 'Mars'. He put the lives of his own leaders in peril by remotely controlling the Massive. He continuously wastes valuable Irken resources on his joke of a mission!"

Dib stared at the computer screen, mouth agape, trying to process what he was hearing.

"He is more than just a nuisance; he is a danger to us all. At his Existence Evaluation, not even the Control Brains could rid us of this menace to the Empire. We must take matters into our own hands. His PAK cannot be allowed into the collective. Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

Entire solar systems away, the pale, bespectacled child sat upright in his dark bedroom, paralyzed with newfound shock. He trembled in his seat as pure, concentrated horror coursed through his veins.


	4. Of Zim's Oblivion and Migraine Headaches

Dib's mouth fell agape, and he felt detached from reality. Paralyzed with shock, his breath faltered until his lungs burned with the lack of oxygen. Finally, gulping down an immense breath of air, the boy broke into hyperventilation as a million different thoughts coursed furiously through his mind.

_They're going to kill him. Right this very moment, his life is in danger. I have to do something!_

He stood up hastily from his desk, knocking over his chair in the process. The headrush caused his brain to whirl with blood and his vision to become momentarily unfocused. He glanced helplessly around him, at his various gadgets and gizmos, trying to figure out what to do. Then, another thought sprang into his mind, just as vehemently as the first.  _Why should I do anything? Without him, the Earth is finally safe._

Slowly, he picked up his desk chair and lowered his shaking body into the seat once more. He paused in thought, lost in the flurry of revelations that were gradually seeping into his mind. He deliberated the words he had heard uttered just mere seconds before. _What did they mean when they said he was a "defective"? And about his mission being a joke? He was in exile?_

Dib unconsciously pulled at his hair as a familiar wave of pity and confusion washed over him, the very same as the twinge he felt after listening to Zim's "evaluation" only hours prior. Like before, he immediately tried to shut down his own warped train of thought. This time, though, he felt his calculated, cold apathy waver in favor of something he could not place. Perhaps the deep-rooted duty to act, not out of fondness or alliance, but merely as a human being with morals and weaknesses and things Zim would never comprehend but needed direly right now.

He began to break out into a sweat as his amber eyes flicked about his desk yet again.  _What_ could _I do?_  Dib launched into deep, calculated thought amid the pounding in his brain, nervously allowing his gaze to fall on the countless apparatuses littered on his desk. They were of both human and Irken origin, little treasures he had stolen from Zim that had gradually accumulated over the years until he had garnered his own collection of broken plasma blasters, locaters, and ambiguous remote controls. They lay strewn across the desk, disassembled almost savagely.

He had taken them apart in vain, trying to learn more about Irken equipment. More often than not, though, a majority of his knowledge had come from working on Tak's ship over the years in the hopes to explore more of the paranormal. Tak's ship…

Something suddenly gnawed at the back of Dib's mind and in his maelstrom of excitement, he remembered a snippet from his past, no so very long ago. Back when the two had fought for control over the Massive and immediately after Zim had discovered the spy bug Dib had planted in his base.

The Irken, even in the face of conflict, was smug as ever as fire gleamed in his eyes and the words poured from his mouth.  _"Computer! Lock onto Dib's transmission signal and transmit a little signal of our own!"_

Dib recalled his own voice, laced with dread.  _"What are you doing, Zim?"_

_"That's Irken technology you're sitting in, Dib! I'm just reminding it is all."_

He could use the ship to send Zim a transmission! He could warn him!

Allowing his disarrayed motives to progress no further into doubt, Dib bolted from his desk and burst out into the chilled March air.

* * *

In stark juxtaposition, far beyond the stars, a sense of rare serenity wafted throughout the Voot Runner. Zim was limply strewn across his control chair, absolutely still as he settled into a deep slumber to accompany his overworked PAK's attempts at recharging. The seat was reclined as far as it would go and his head hung off the back of it, causing his antennae to nearly brush the ground beneath him. Additionally, his mouth was slightly ajar, and a streak of drool dribbled down his cheek as he snored lightly.

Not long after Zim had drifted off, GIR had followed suit and very quietly nestled himself into the passenger seat beside the sleeping mass. Glancing at the pillow Zim had taken with him, which was now wedged between the arm of the chair and his master's belly, he set his sights on that as well. He paused for a beat, then carefully reached over and slyly extracted it without so much as causing the Irken to stir. Lying back against the warm cushion, he too fell asleep.

For a few moments, all that could be heard was the deep, heavy sound of the pair's rhythmic breathing and a vague humming from the monitor, which continued to play cartoons at a decidedly low volume.

Then, a barely discernible rustling noise could be heard outside of the Voot. A shadow slipped past the windshield of the ship, but its passengers were blithely unaware and lost in their respective slumbers. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished back into the darkness.

* * *

In the gloom, the outlines of two Invaders stood watch, their svelte shadows stretched menacingly across the pathway. The repair bay was silent, the air still. Quiet, albeit vehement sounds of an argument whistled through the air as the two quarreled in hushed whispers.

"You dare question the Tallest? Those who spoke before your fleet when you became an Elite Soldier? Those who christened you an Invader at the Great Assigning?  _To whom you owe your unwavering respect and loyalty?_  The very thought of it is nothing less than  _treason_!" Spleen hissed at the other figure.

Fretfully, the second Irken shifted his feet. "But is this entire mission itself not treason? The Control Brains made their final verdict at Zim's Existence Evaluation long ago; what we are doing is going against all Irkenkind. I can't afford to be re-encoded!"

Spleen snarled quietly and watched as another figure crept by on extended PAK legs. He trailed the form with intense fuchsia eyes while yelling in a harsh whisper. "You won't be, fool! Now ensure that it stays that way and keep watch!"

Slinking away on his own mechanical limbs, Spleen abandoned him and followed the dark shape of Larb to the edge of the repair bay, right outside Zim's archaic Voot Runner. The first Irken swallowed bitterly at the idea of answering to Larb, who had until previously, been his equal.

For years, Invader Larb had striven to become the poster child of Irken galactic conquest. From the moment he had been assigned Vort, one of Irk's greatest challengers, he had assumed a role of superiority in the face of his fellow Invaders. And once he had conquered it, that sense of pride only grew. Now, though, without a mission, he was at the mercy of the Tallest. And their newest assignment for him was to lead the quiet slaying of Irk's greatest annoyance.

For though Irkens are a destructive and heartless race, execution of their own kind is criminal unless specifically ruled by the Control Brains in a trial. Hence the reason Zim was merely banished after his actions in Operation Impending Doom I as opposed to being deactivated.

Therefore, what the Tallest plotted to do was staunchly forbidden. It was no longer a game or a thinly veiled ploy to rid themselves of Zim; it was a conspiracy at the hands of their most vulnerable soldiers. Those who had completed their missions and had turned to scrounging for a purpose. Larb dared not go against his leaders, nor did any of the others, though they bristled inwardly at the risk involved.

Now, the conqueror of Vort turned to acknowledge the adjoining outline of Spleen in a taciturn manner. Both were clad in the Irken equivalent of biohazard suits, complete with gas masks that, when pulled over their faces, hid their features and made them all the more menacing. Strapped to Larb's back, however, was a large metal canister and a long black tube that trailed from it. Its exterior was blank, ominously so, and the fastenings were fitted snugly over his shoulders. He wordlessly handed the tube to Spleen and gave him a stony, unreadable expression. Spleen took it in both hands and awaited instructions.

"We have ensured that the defective is in his ship and the airlock is secured. The mission is simple; you will place the tube through the escape hatch on the roof. Do NOT blunder this, Spleen, like you blundered nearly everything else during our cadet days. We cannot risk exposure. I will stay down here and administer the gas. When the job is done, we report back to the Tallest. It should take no more than ten minutes."

Spleen narrowed his eyes at him shrewdly but turned away nonetheless and began following directions. The idea of gassing one of his fellow Elites in his own ship apparently bothered him far less than the snide comment of implied inferiority, for he cursed Larb quietly as he concurrently snuck self-assuredly towards the Voot. Resolutely, he adjusted the gas mask over his face.

Meanwhile, Zim's prone form was blithely unaware of the danger that was poised right outside him. Slowly, a tube could be seen snaking its way into an open hatch from above, leading down into his ship.

* * *

The thin, agile figure of the scythe-haired boy tore through the night, making a beeline to the garage. More specifically, to the tarp-covered Irken spacecraft that resided within it.

Two different voices seemed to be arguing back and forth in his head, rallying for acknowledgement.

The scolding voice of Dib's former self, righteous and coldhearted as ever, fought against his impending actions and he felt inclined to listen to it; to what he thought was reason. It furiously screamed in his ear, demanding to know why he would even  _consider_  warning his mortal enemy of the danger he faced. Dib was fraught, for he could not give it an answer.

Meanwhile, the other voice was merely in panic mode, controlling Dibs fingers as he dazedly, albeit hastily, lit into action and flicked various knobs and levers.

To his dismay, he felt his chest clench as the sheer frustration of his muddled thoughts caused angered tears to slip from his eyes and pool onto the dashboard. The two counterparts of his internal monologue continued to battle inside him.

Finally, the computer interface addressed him in Tak's degrading tone and distinct accent. He heard not what it said though, and instead proceeded to shout orders.

"Computer! Lock onto Zim's ship and send an emergency transmission!"

The computer lagged, processing Dib's request. Then, after an agonizing several seconds,  _"Connection successfully established with Irken Space Vessel VR-86967. Please state your orders."_

Dib slammed his hand down on the dashboard, blood pounding in his head heavily and sweat fogging up his glasses.

"I just told you! Transmit an emergency warning…or something!" He didn't quite know what he was asking the ship to do, but he persisted nonetheless.

He ripped his spectacles off and hesitated again, ensnared in his own rising emotional turmoil, and fidgeted impatiently while he waited for the ship to process his command. His hands were shaking violently by now, and his scythe lock was beginning to droop down his forehead.

After another excruciatingly long moment of waiting, he slammed his fists down on the control panel and stood up anxiously, finally exhausting his thin supply of patience. For lack of a distinct location to direct his words to, he set his gaze to the ceiling and screamed his demands to the heavens in a feat of desperation and trademark insanity.

"NOW, DAMMIT! IT'S AN EMERGENCY!"

* * *

Outside, the hunched silhouette of Spleen could be seen suspended by his PAK legs, giving a silent cue to Larb to begin administering the toxin. He flipped the switch stoically, and within seconds, a clear vapor began to emanate from the tube and into Zim's cockpit.

The almost transparent waft of poison swirled, curling overheard and contrasting vaguely with the glow of Zim's control panel. It began to settle menacingly over its Irken victim in a thick wave.

Hardly had it begun, though, before a blaring alarm suddenly blasted from within the ship. The cockpit lit up with warning lights, which illuminated the two occupants in a brilliant, glowing red. The whine of the emergency signal indicated that its origins were from a transmission, typically meant to alert Irken vessels in enemy territories.

The Invaders recoiled and collectively stared at the ship in terror. Inside, Zim was promptly startled awake by the Irken distress call that tore through the air. Flashing lights lit up his stunned face as he crashed onto the floor and swore loudly. His eyes were wide as saucers and he glanced anxiously around himself.

"WHAT? WHAT'S GOING ON! GIR!" he stammered.

Instantaneously, the administration of the noxious gas ceased, and tube was yanked out hastily. Evidently spooked, the hunched form of the Irken atop Zim's Voot stealthily slunk off the roof and proceeded to abort mission. Several others followed his lead, and like cockroaches, they dispersed into the darkness, some raised on PAK legs. Larb hastily shut off the button on the side of the still-full canister and fled as well while the alarms echoed from within the Voot in a steady cadence.

Before he could get far, though, a stark realization dawned on him; if he returned to the Tallest without having killed Zim and completing his mission, he would most certainly be re-encoded. For while they played the role of gracious rulers in assigning Larb this mission, they had also made it very clear that the Irken Army had nothing to lose by disposing of him. He had conquered Vort long ago and his fate, along with the fate of the majority, now lay in the hands of the Tallest. He began to feel a pang of regret at having asserted his leadership in such a mission before allowing it to melt into pure, unadulterated panic.

At once, he ceased running and began to shrug out of the straps that held the canister to his back. The others streaked past him on quick agile legs, heading back towards the building. Gruffly, he shoved the bulky cylinder towards a passing Irken. "Take it!" he yelled over his should as he dashed back towards the Voot. As he ran, his PAK opened and deposited a glowing, mauve plasma blaster into his waiting hand.

-x-

Zim tried to sit up from his spot on the floor, then abandoned the effort as he broke out in a sudden and violent fit of coughing. His eyes stung and watered. He tried to force them open, but was overwhelmed by the flashing red warning lights and unfathomable thickness in the air. He tried in vain to locate his robotic henchman.

"GIR! WHAT DID YOU DO?" he bellowed. He managed to pull himself off the ground on shaky legs. Seeing double, the afflicted Irken continued to hack and had to clutch the console for dear life as he was seized by the attacks. GIR, no worse for wear, appeared next to him and shut off the transmission screen, putting a stop to the alarm.

"I didn't do nothin'," he said innocently. Zim faced him and tried to respond, but was wracked with yet another fit. His airways were stifled, and he began to feel lightheaded. He glanced at GIR and staggered back into his chair.

Then, though confused and disoriented, he registered a faint scratching coming from outside his Voot. Behind the smothering sensation of slow suffocation, his old paranoia flooded back to him, and he began to cower back in his chair, gasping and spluttering for breath.

Suddenly, his bleary eyes widened in horror as a dark, indiscernible shape appeared right in front of him, mere inches away and buffered only by the windshield of the ship. He was unable to make out any defining features of the silhouette, save for the biohazard mask that concealed its identity and the ominous luminosity of the pistol it held in one steady hand. The glow of the brandished weapon radiated between the two for a brief instant, contrasting the impassive gaze of the masked figure and the look of awestruck horror that dawned on Zim's face. It aimed the firearm towards his chest, just a trigger pull away from extinguishing the Irken's life.

The Elite's heart stuttered, and he fell out of his chair yet again, landing on his rear with an audible "uuuumph!" and causing the Voot to rock slightly. The blast that tore through the plasma gun narrowly missed him and instead obliterated the back of his pilot's chair, leaving it a charred heap. The strips of purple fabric and plastic smoked, as did the rim of the gaping hole that now appeared from the windshield.

Zim crawled to the back of the cockpit while the dark form adjusted his aim, prepared to shoot at him yet again.

"GIR! GIR! DEFENSIVE MO—" Zim screamed before another choke cut off his orders. But the robot was nowhere in sight. The Irken crawled along the floor on his belly, just as another shot hit the frame of his storage hatch, inches above his head.

Taking refuge beneath the console, he frantically attempted to start up the ship, forgetting that it was low on fuel. It rocked again and rose shakily off the ground. At once, the shadow that had stood in front of him slid off the hood and landed roughly on the ground with an audible cry of pain.

Yet another blast from the gun shot up into the air beside the space vessel, an exquisite, glowing purple exploding into the night like a beacon. Another followed close behind as its wielder tried in vain to down the ship.

Zim stood up again and tried to fly it, despite his ceaseless coughing spell. Try as he might, he was unable to alleviate the merciless bout of choking that tore through his body and Voot Runner wobbled unsteadily in the sky as its half-conscious pilot attempted to steer it upwards.

Zim's heart pounded fearfully and intermingled with the fiery pain in his chest.  _What's happening? Why can't I breathe?_  He desperately sought the oxygen mask that resided above the control panel, but his vision was now warbled and unfocused.

Without the stabilizers engaged, he tottered woozily around the cockpit, dodging plasma blasts and rising higher into the air. Through sheer luck, he managed to steer the ship out of range unscathed while the figure on the ground below him threw up its arms in rage.

Though the hole within his windshield allowed some of the thick, stale air to dissipate, nothing could quell the horrid coughing fits. Unable to so much as take a breath, Zim felt himself drifting further and further from reality from the lack of air. Breaking away from the controls, he struggled to unlock the hatch that held the oxygen mask he so direly needed.

GIR watched him closely, though the expression on his metallic face was unreadable. He may as well have been reading a billboard or watching paint dry. He amiably patted Zim's back while his master clawed at the ceiling of his ship and wheezed painfully, likely not understanding the severity of the situation.

Eventually, his claws abandoned their search for the mask, and instead blindly groped along the dashboard. Black spots began to obscure his vision.

Knowing he had just seconds left before succumbing to asphyxiation, Zim went to work at the controls. He slammed a button down with the palm of one ungloved hand to replace his ruined windshield and peered dizzily through the spare one as it locked into place. He was vaguely aware of the Voot hurdling through the sky, close to breaking through the atmosphere and into space.

Next, he turned his attention to his dash. By now, his vision had gone haywire and the glowing buttons on the control board blurred together. He somehow managed to weakly set the coordinates to Earth before his body started to dissociate from his mind.

Now, all he needed to do was put the ship on autopilot. He felt his knees buckle as his hand sought desperately at the controls to ensure the ship would not become lost in space or come crashing back down to Conventia.

Weakly, he reached forward, towards the button needed to initiate it and pressed down with one feeble claw. At that moment, his eyes began to flutter shut, and in something reminiscent to hazy desperation, he made brief eye contact with GIR before they rolled back into his head. The last thing the Irken felt was his hand, extended out in front of him, slide limply down the side of the console and his knees hit the ground while he slipped fully into oblivion.

* * *

Dib slowly rose, trembling violently, from his seat. He had no way of knowing if Zim was still alive, if the emergency signal that was transmitted to his Voot had gone through successfully.  _Why? Why would you do it?_  Dib's stomach knotted as the realization dawned on him. He couldn't explain why.

A sudden claustrophobia settled over the boy as his actions caught up with him and he hastily climbed out of the ship and retreated from the cold garage. Outside, where the sun had gleamed brightly only days earlier, cold snow now settled in slushy piles and snowflakes fluttered down languidly from the ashen sky. Such was the unpredictability of March weather. Dib nebulously felt the pinpricks of the flakes as they landed on his hot skin. His breath rose in thick clouds from his agitated panting while he stumbled dazedly back to the house.

Once in his room, he gripped the headphones numbly in both his hands and remembered that he had recorded the conversation in the hopes that he could show it to the Swollen Eyeball Network. He perched on the edge of his seat and stared at the computer screen in front of him, which was covered in several paragraphs of translated dialogue. Then, trembling violently, Dib read through it, starting from the beginning, when he had woken up and set it to automatically decipher the plot he had intruded upon.

_…Must look like an accident…Continuously wastes valuable resources on his joke of a mission…. Defective Zim's parade of indignities…Defective Zim._

His eyes skimmed the writing an absurd amount of times in utter disbelief until he had memorized every word. The boy felt as though he had walked in on some horrible tragedy. His mind reeled with conflict and frustration. He involuntarily reevaluated the last year, rapidly seeing it in a new light.

He was daunted by just how much he didn't know about the diminutive Irken who lived the next neighborhood over. By how much that Irken didn't know about himself…

_If Zim's mission is a joke…then this "Armada" will never make its way to Earth like he had assured it would. Zim's threats were all just empty, ignorant promises._

Dib sneered and trembled at the newfound knowledge. Confliction tore through his body, flashing with a new misgiving every second. He had received too much information, both about Zim and his occupation, far too fast to comprehend. It didn't help that most of his perceptions towards his present and future had become muddled with his confusing age and awkward period of life. It was something Dib himself could never understand in the moment, and it had existed like a rift between him and his own common sense for the last year or so.

The boy sat on his bed in a stupor for the next hour, shivering from a combination of the cold draft, his own doings, and the unknown fate that may never resurface. At one point, in the midst of his attempts to untangle his snarl of emotions, he felt a pang of guilt from somewhere deep within his chest.

Dib's mouth pulled down at the corners as he pondered this. He could not place its origins. Was it because he had acted in favor of the alien or because he felt he hadn't done enough? The voice deep within his gut told him it was the latter and he felt his shoulders slump as he slouched over his disheveled bedspread.

Regardless, he tried to comfort himself with the idea that he had done all he could in the face of a situation that didn't concern him in the least. No matter how disjointed his motives or thoughts may have been, nothing could change the fact that, at this very moment, Zim was likely nothing more than a cold, lifeless corpse. And to this perverse visual, he attempted to find solace in the idea that his actions held no consequence.

Cautiously and with a twinge of dread, like a deer expecting the pounce of an unseen predator, Dib lowered his body stiffly onto his bed in a pitiful attempt to sleep. He removed his glasses and closed his laptop, feeling the cold darkness close in on him without its glow to light the room. Instead of closing his eyes though, for several minutes, all he did was stare up at his galaxy poster and continue to allow his thoughts to run amuck. Regardless of what he told himself or how he justified his actions, he could not shake the inexplicable despair he felt, nor quell the pounding headache that pulsed through his head and haunted his nightmares.


	5. Of Irken Whereabouts and Dib's Horrible Identity Crisis of Doom

"ARE YOU INSANE?" A shrill voice pierced the air in the wake of the scuffle as shadows emerged from the darkness and began to surround Larb.

The Irken in question panted and let the plasma blaster drop to the ground beside him. All he could do now was glower maniacally at the defective's ship as it tore through the sky, higher and higher until it was just a mere speck.

Tenn latched onto his shoulder and spun him around to face her. In one swift move, she tore off his gas mask and spat in his face. "You could have killed us all!"

He slipped from her grasp and swiped one claw savagely over her face in retaliation. "I was only completing the mission at hand! What will become of us now?" he demanded.

The others glanced from Tenn, who hissed and clutched at her wounded cheek, and back to Larb. He appeared half-crazed. His wide eyes were livid and the kinks at the end of his antennae were standing on end and pointed forward in a telltale sign of aggression.

Several allowed their eyes to slip downwards as they pondered the question with palpable anxiety.  _What now?_

* * *

The cacophony of emotions Dib felt had died down by the next day. Or so he convinced himself.  _Zim is dead_. That's what he told himself, how he subdued the guilt and other such emotions he had felt the night before. Why should he feel pain when he could feel nothing at all? Wasn't well-placed apathy the secret to never getting hurt? His own sister would certainly argue in favor of that claim.

He silently trudged to skool, sidestepping melting sludge as the springtime sunshine warmed the earth and rid the ground of the last traces of snow. He maintained a glassy stare and mechanically walked into the skool and to his first period class. As to be expected, Zim's seat sat dormant. The one course he shared with him, Intro to American Literature, had previously served as Dib's best opportunity to spy on the unwitting Irken—much to the detriment of his grade in the class.  _Not anymore_ , Dib thought to himself.

As usual, groggy students stumbled into the classroom bearing disheveled clothing and steaming coffee cups. The room was silent as they took their seats and begrudgingly reached into their backpacks for their textbooks. The teacher, a portly balding man named Mr. Davis, rose from his desk with a clipboard and began to take attendance. Dib slumped in his seat and pressed his fingers to his temples. The sleepy voices of his classmates announced their presence around him.

Not one student acknowledged the lack of Zim's attendance and Mr. Davis merely glanced at the empty desk and flicked the box beside Zim's name to record an unexcused absence. Dib remained silent about the Irken as well. He allowed himself to gaze at the alien's desk hollowly for a moment and resolved to forget the last five years.

He pulled out his composition book with stiff disregard. The monotonous droning of the English teacher barely reached his ears as a numbness settled over him and pressed gently on his chest.

* * *

"Ugghhh…"

Meanwhile, from within the Voot, a supine figure twitched and groaned from his spot on the floor, tucked partially beneath the control dash. One green hand squeezed into a fist and immediately went slack again as its owner was roused languorously into consciousness. Zim shook his head back and forth slowly, as if fending off a nightmare. Something dry and crumbly was being shoved into his face repeatedly, stirring him from his slumber. Finally, sunken magenta eyes fluttered open and met a bright, cyan pair that hovered over him.

"GIR?" he asked weakly.

The robot's face lit up in an ecstatic smile and he pushed himself even closer to the Irken, until their foreheads touched.

"I getted you cookies!" he screamed into his master's face, trying to jam another biscuit into Zim's mouth. The Elite cringed inwardly and jerked away from GIR's well-meaning gesture. His arms and legs, strewn unnaturally across the floor, twitched as he tried to heave himself into a sitting position.

The little SIR backed up and watched him struggle, shyly clutching the box of Nilla Wafers close to his chest. "You were sleeping a long time, Master…"

"Heh? How long?" Zim drawled. He finally managed an upright position, brushed crumbs off his tunic, and looked around. The cockpit spun wildly as he did so and the Irken immediately held his head in both hands and pinched his eyes shut again as dizziness overcame him. He waited for the room to come into focus before very apprehensively taking in his surroundings.

The very first thing he noticed was his control dash, namely the dully flashing warning on one monitor that served to alert him that the ship was dangerously low on fuel. The Voot puttered along languidly in space, set to Earth's coordinates.

Zim held onto the console with both hands and weakly pulled himself up before turning to GIR again. His servant watched him closely and munched on a cookie.

"I wanted to let you sleep in," he said breezily in voice that dripped with pure innocence. Cookie crumbs fluttered from his mouth to the floor. Usually Zim would pitch a fit at this, but the Irken's mind was still reeling.

He furrowed his brow and looked down at his feet. They were still covered only by his black socks, which were slowly slipping off and bunching at the toes. Cautiously loosening his grip on the edge of the control panel, he very gingerly let go and tested his strength. Immediately, the Irken tottered to one side and had to clutch it once again. He felt sore and strange. Oh! So strange!

The infernal need to hack had mysteriously subsided, leaving nothing but a dull aching in his chest in its wake. Nonetheless, he felt as though he had scrubbed his throat out with steel wool and his words came out rather gravely as a result.

More than that, though, his muscles were weak and uncoordinated. The aftermath of all the ruthless physical endurance tests back in the academy couldn't even come close to the fatigue he was now experiencing. The exhausted alien tried to place exactly why this would be. The charging cell located within his PAK should have revitalized him in his unconscious state and he should be perfectly fit and vigilant right now.

Instead, his low-lidded eyes kept focusing in and out, seemingly detached from the rest of his mind. The room spun and continuously blurred and unblurred and Zim felt his innards churn nauseously from the vertigo.

He growled and tried to ignore the sensation as he sat down on the ground again, huddled beneath his dashboard. GIR wandered over and dropped to a sitting position beside him.

As Zim combatted the inexplicable feeling coursing through his veins, he struggled to make sense of the incident that led them to this predicament.

He remembered flashes of plasma, a masked figure, and his own sleepiness yanked from him like a sheet in favor of rising terror. Most vividly, perhaps, was the panic in his chest as he tried desperately to cough and splutter and rid his insides of whatever he had breathed in. Zim's mind whirled with confusion and he felt faint again.  _Why hadn't I been able to breathe? And why is it that I can miraculously breathe now? Who was that person? Where am I? What's going on? How long has it been?_

Zim felt paranoia swallow him whole, stifling his typically militaristic approach to anything that may compromise his mission. He stood up a little too suddenly and peered over his controls, through the windshield. His antennae flattened against his head.  _Enemy_. He had an enemy who wanted him dead. Someone who dared kill him in cold blood, in his own ship…

Fully expecting to see alien vessels surrounding his ship, Zim's breathing quickened and he glanced around anxiously. But instead, he found he was alone. In fact, not another ship nor planet was in sight, leaving his Voot to drift indolently through unknown space, presumably in the direction of Earth. Regardless, he continued to tremble and curled into a tight ball beneath the console again, hiding his face beneath his arms and knees, which were drawn up to his chest.

GIR regarded him expressionlessly, then cocked his head a little to the side. He poked at Zim's right antenna and the alien squirmed uncomfortably away, withdrawing into himself even further.

"Master?" The robot sounded concerned. "You're scared…" The second part came out more as a self-assured statement rather than a question.

Zim ceased his shivering at once and paused for a beat. "Of course I'm not!"

To further prove his point, he unfurled from his position and looked up at his servant. But GIR was no longer paying attention, currently in the process of shaking the empty Nilla Wafer box upside down in search of more. When no additional cookies magically appeared, though, he merely shrugged and devoured the box instead.

Zim didn't budge from his spot. "C-computer. Run a scan on the Voot. And check for any security breaches or enemy vessels within the perimeter."

He waited while the computer processed his commands, though he could easily look up the latter information himself on the radar screen. Groggy and confused, the little alien refused to leave his sanctuary beneath the table until he was fully convinced he was safe. His antennae perked slightly once the computer had deducted that he was under no threat of attack. It then proceeded to run the analysis on his ship's functions.

"Fuel reservoir low: immediate action advised."

Zim pinned his eyes on the storage hatch, which held a few containers of additional fuel that existed exclusively for emergencies such as this one. He would have to venture outside his ship in order to attend to the matter.

"Master!" GIR tapped Zim on the shoulder and proudly held out a jumble of clothing. He recognized it as the rest of his uniform and his purple spacesuit. Stepping into the pair of boots and adjusting his tiny, tailormade black gloves, Zim turned back to the entrance of the storage compartment.

The rim of it was melted and black from the plasma blast, leaving it little more than a charred mess. Zim yanked at the door until it screeched crookedly along the floor and revealed a plethora of equipment. Tools, food, oxygen tanks, and additional clothing lined the walls, just a few of the vital items the compartment held.

His large fuchsia eyes scrutinized the room until they rested upon three full canisters of fuel. It would have to do until he could find a planet within range to land his ship and perform perfunctory maintenance. Next, he fixed his eyes on another sight: a collection of weapons in case of ambush. Zim very selectively chose a small revolver and tucked it into his pocket.

Then, the Irken determinedly rose to his feet, shaking ever so slightly, but enraptured nonetheless in a newfound fervor to return to Earth. Back to his mission.

* * *

The end of the week arrived slowly and steadily, just as it always does. Dib walked to school, sans Gaz, who was at home finishing the last level of her latest game. She was hardly fazed at the idea of taking a fake sick day when she was in the zone.

Dib hiked his backpack further up on his scrawny shoulder and looked ahead of him. The snow was now completely melted, replaced with drying puddles of water scattered about the sidewalk. In a subconscious gesture, the boy found himself walking far out of his way, taking the scenic route to school. He only partially registered that this part of this path included passing by Zim's house.

He could see it looming in the distance. The strange glowing and freakishly large satellite beckoned Dib and he unconsciously felt his heart quicken pace. He scowled and dragged his feet along the concrete. Despite his best efforts, he still found himself abstractedly gazing at it for a moment, unsure why he had come here in the first place. Then, he continued walking to school without a second thought.

* * *

The Voot had traveled through space at a relatively low pace for about a week now. Zim couldn't afford to put it into hyperdrive until he was able to reach an allied planet and properly replenish the fuel reserves, leaving him to idly pass the time in any means necessary.

The Irken himself felt so very peculiar, as if his typical exuberance had been sapped from him and had continued to do so little by little over the past several days. He leaned back into his ruined chair and listened to the blood course through his head.

After a moment, Zim stood up and forced his feet forward in the direction of the storage compartment that held his foodstuffs. His breaths rattled in his chest, air being sucked in far too copiously for the length he was crossing, from one end of his minuscule cockpit to the other.  _What is wrong with me?_  Once he made it across, he paused and clung to the door handle for a moment to recuperate.

GIR watched him from his spot on the floor, where he had been coloring pictures and humming cheerfully. "You're outta shape!" he proclaimed.

Zim growled and opened the hatch. "I'm  _fine_ , GIR," he hissed crossly through his teeth.

He extracted a package of food and collapsed back into his chair, growing increasingly annoyed with his lack of energy. He silently reminded himself to run a biological scan when he returned to Earth.

Then, he laconically glanced down at the mess of papers he had been rifling through minutes prior. The contents of his briefcase, which he had intended to flaunt in the faces of his fellow Invaders, now lay open in front of him upon the control pad. Various schematics and photos were strewn across the dashboard and Zim sifted through them with seeming disinterest.

As he lifted some files, a picture slipped out and fluttered to the ground at his feet. Zim picked it up and examined it dully. It was the sophomore class photo from the beginning of the skool year, back in September. Zim had taken it with him to show the Tallest as part of his evaluation on the indigenous life. Surely, they would want to know how he had managed to blend in with the other human worm babies…

All the students stood lined up in three different rows, rigid in posture and beaming with fake, plastered smiles. The only two who weren't smiling were Zim and Dib. The disguised alien was standing at the end of the front row with the shortest of the short. He appeared to be glaring warily at something off camera. A few rows behind him, in the back, was Dib. His expression was as neutral as that of the simplistic design on his t-shirt and his eyes were downcast. Zim smirked at the sight of the pathetic Earth child.

As time passed them by, Zim had tried to simply ignore the boy, who had recently hit a growth spurt and now towered over the alien. Only when he appeared to pose a threat to his mission did Zim pay any heed to him.

For years, the exasperated Elite frequently kicked Dib off his property, put up with his clichéd monologues, and cleverly played the victim in the face of their peers when he went off on another tired rant about Zim's alien origins. Though the human was the very definition of a pest, he was admittingly cunning in his persistence. Because of this, Zim could not deny the dangers of his interference. Countless times, he had foiled Zim's plots, leaving the little green Irken back at the drawing board.

As a result, he regarded Dib very much as the Tallest regarded Zim, himself: a mere annoyance that only served to cause harm and which must be eradicated.

Yet something in his expression, solidified by the skool photo, seemed to emanate a peculiar significance in Dib's countenance. Something in his features were no longer childlike and innocent, replaced instead with a cold expression and the undertones of newfound masculinity that comes to every adolescent in time. It was in this picture that Zim realized something deeper was transforming within his longtime rival, other than his height. To consider Dib to a be a legitimate threat, a force to be reckoned with, was almost a cruel joke to the alien. Almost. For it did not stop him from growing twice as wary of the boy.

Zim tossed the photo aside casually and reclined in his seat. Suddenly, the computer's voice interface came on overhead, startling him slightly.

_"Proximity warning: planet ahead."_

Zim sighed in relief. Now he could properly fuel his ship and enter hyperspace. He fully intended to return home in a timely manner.

* * *

_If he were coming back, he certainly would have been back by now…_

Try as he might to avoid it, Dib routinely felt the hollow pang of dejection and immediately countered his emotions by wondering why he cared. He didn't. He couldn't. That's what he told himself. By the third day, though, it occurred to him that he may be only person to truly know what became of Zim and it sickened him to his very core to think about.

In the meantime, Zim's desk remained empty and not one classmate so much as questioned the whereabouts of the eccentric green kid.

The date on the whiteboard sloppily announced that it was Thursday, March 22rd in purple Expo marker. Dib's gaze flicked from the writing on the board to his notebook as he tried to focus on the lecture. He felt as though he had been sucked into a permanent stupor.

Mechanically, he copied the notes written on the board.  _Ernest Hemingway was born July 21, 1899_ —Dib paused and began to doodle a circle on the bottom of the page— _won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954_ —he added to his notes and drew two parallel lines ending in kinks above the circle. He glanced briefly at Zim's empty seat involuntarily, then scowled and tuned his attention back to at the balding, heavyset teacher at the front of the room. Facts continued to appear on the projector screen and made their way sloppily into Dib's notebook.

He continued writing, swiping his pencil over the paper frantically— _sevens novels, six short story collections, and two non-fiction_ —he added two large ovals to his little drawing.

Then, Dib caught yet another glance at the Irken's desk. This time, he did a double take. For below Zim's table was a glimmer of metal that Dib recognized as the sleek, grey stylus that accompanied Zim's Irken tablet, evidently forgotten by the alien merely a week before in his haste to make it to second period. Just barely visible was the tiny two-eyed Irken insignia on the side. It had been trodden on by various students, abandoned and broken beyond repair.

At once, something about this rather trivial sight triggered something within Dib. He felt the floodgates burst open and a wave of nausea tear through his body. His carefully laden apathy fell like rain and the boy immediately shot his hand up into the air.

"Dib? What is it?" the teacher asked in mild annoyance at being interrupted.

"I need to use the bathroom!" Dib burst out with a bit too much fervor. Some of the students snickered behind him. The boy ignored them and darted from his seat. As he made it to the door, he averted his eyes to the stylus and widely sidestepped it.

He practically sprinted down the hall towards the restrooms. Something inside him had finally snapped and Dib felt hot, angry tears slide down his face. Upon entering, he noted the room's emptiness and promptly locked himself in one of the stalls. Once inside, he sat down on the dirty floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He lifted his hand and felt the wetness on his cheek. He swore loudly and kicked the toilet paper roll clean of its hinges from his awkward sitting position.

Why did he care? Did he not want Zim gone long ago? Dib began to reflect on his own intentions. Somewhere in his subconscious, Dib supposed he had used the alien as a distraction from his own problems. As a result, keeping his attention focused on Zim had manifested itself into a much-needed anchor of consistency and routine that, unbeknownst to him until now, Dib clung to for dear life.

For unlike the rest of his world over the past years, Zim hadn't changed at all. Seeing that ten years on Earth were equal to one year on Irk, Zim had remained exactly the same as when he first landed. Still pigheaded, still hellbent on world conquest, still diminutive in size. As the rest of his grade school classmates shot up in height, Zim could only watch bitterly as he remained at a solid 3 feet, 10 inches. Grade Skool had come and gone and Hi Skool gradually took what innocence the once naïve students of Ms. Bitters' class possessed. The only thing that stayed the same was the rivalry between the stuttering, scythe-haired boy and the "sick foreign kid".

And despite his wasted energy and dwindling sanity, Dib had concluded that Zim was hardly a threat to Earth long ago. Gaz had said it herself, but her bullheaded brother refused to loosen his grip on the idea that he was the only thing standing between Zim and Earth's demise. Over the years, though, it became increasingly obvious that Zim's plans would inevitably backfire on him. Only a handful of times, Dib had to intervene before something of consequence could occur.

Had pursuing the alien been a purely selfish endeavor? Dib began to wonder just how much of his personal mission had been spent in an honest attempt at protecting mankind.

Instead, the boy had turned his attention to proving himself sane. Surely Zim's exposure would earn him the respect he so desired. He would be hailed as a hero, be remembered as a misunderstood visionary.

But even so, that effort had seemingly evolved yet again. Now Dib realized that in the last year or so, he had been pursuing Zim to distract himself from growing up. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach as he pondered this. He would rather cling to that bit of 'normality,' in the loosest sense of the word, instead of worry about college, girls, and being shoved into the work force. And now that Zim was gone, Dib had no choice but to trudge on through life, as daunting as it was.

Pushing one shaky leg beneath him, Dib slowly rose from the floor and walked out of the bathroom stall. He stood in front of the mirror and emptily took in his gaunt features. His eyes were sunken in beneath his large spectacles and he looked even paler than usual. One stiff hand reached out and pressed the silver handle on the sink. Cold water streamed out and Dib splashed some across his face to calm his nerves before returning to class.

As he shuffled back to his seat, Dib's gaze snapped immediately to the doodle in the corner of his notebook. Right beside the notes on Hemmingway, Dib had subconsciously drawn a crude caricature that bore an undeniable resemblance to Zim. Giant oval eyes peered out from below two black stalks with little kinks at the ends. The skinny body was comically disproportionate and somewhere along the way, Dib had even added the alien's PAK. The cartoon stood out from the lined paper of his composition book tauntingly.

In a flood of anger, Dib angrily tore the entire page out of his notebook and balled it up. Students raised their heads in confusion as he chucked it in the wastepaper basket with a bit too much gusto before plopping down in his seat again. He slammed his head down on the table and covered it with his arms, pinching his eyes shut to quell his ever-present headache. And as the class continued around him, as life went on outside the classroom, Dib could only gulp down deep breaths of air and battle his own, now unbridled emotions in a cruel, unforgiving silence.


	6. Of Irken Ultimatums and Earthbound Outcasts

Larb had never been much of a navigator. He silently cursed at his radar screen as the tiny blue dot slowed and seemingly prepared to descend on a nearby planet. For days he had been in pursuit of a certain Voot Runner, determined to succeed in a new mission that was thrust upon him in the wake of his previous failure.

No, his expertise lay in the art of manipulation. He had mastered it on Vort and used it to his advantage to bend others to his will. It was one of many things he took great pride in and the stubborn Invader suffered a bruised ego from his lack of success in using it the week before. Now, he sat stoically in his ship, following the path that would lead him to the defect and pondered the prior exchange he had received from the Tallest.

It was only a measly several days ago, on the very night they had attempted murder on the faux Invader. For Larb, it was the night that he was faced with an ultimatum.

-x-

The pitch-black sky returned as quickly as it had disappeared following the departure of Zim's ship and the gossamer magenta light that radiated from it as it hurdled towards space and out of sight. The Invaders watched helplessly, still equipped with the full canister; the physical embodiment of their failure. Larb still bristled with rage and the rest of the assemblage had gone silent, faced with their very limited options. The eventuality in any case was to confront their Tallest as soldiers and take any consequence that may be delivered.

Therefore, with utmost deliberation as to not arouse suspicions, they trickled back into the room they had originally met in. One by one, two by two, they marched back, nerves tucked professionally behind a layer of well-practiced self-assurance. Their chins where held up high and their eyes turned down calculatedly to the floor in a well-practiced stance that exuded both superiority and gave the impression of height; looking down upon all that was shorter than they.

As they approached the two rulers of Irk, however, this stance was abruptly turned on its head. Instantly, as their eyes flicked upwards to make eye contact, they appeared more like small Irken smeets, staring up at their elders in a meek display of inferiority.

Silently, the one Invader who had received the canister of poison from Larb offered it to the Tallest meekly.

Tallest Purple sullenly took it from his outstretched hands, measuring its bulk thoughtfully. He frowned, then sneered at the group of expectant Elites.

"Hey! It's still full."

Spleen stepped forth, eyes fixed ahead coldly, and began speaking in a recited, somewhat monotonous tone that did little to conceal his fear. "My Tallest, we were only able to administer a small amount of toxin before the mission was compromised by unknown forces. We were forced to abort."

Both looming figures frowned in the darkness. Slowly, the two towering Irkens turned to exchange a glance at one another. They had clearly not planned for their dubbed finest soldiers to fail what they had presumed to be a foolproof plan in ridding themselves of Zim permanently. Several of the smaller Elite soldiers fidgeted slightly as an abstruse hush cast over the room.

Then, as if to break the silence, Tenn stepped forward. Her face still dripped with blood, which glistened in the darkness. Nonetheless, it only added to her bellicose stance and intense stare.

"My Tallest. Months of reconnaissance on Meekrob has given me insights to the nature of the toxin. It is highly lethal. Even a small amount of exposure will have drastic effects over time. The defective  _will_  expire, likely before the month is through."

The Tallest pondered this for a moment. Then, with a hint of apprehension, Red opened his mouth to speak.

"N-not good enough!" All heads whipped around to where Purple stood beside him. His outburst had a twinge of rising panic in it. "We assigned you with a crucial mission in the name of the Empire! You are not relieved until you complete it!"

His words echoed throughout the empty corridors. Tallest Red cringed and promptly hit his hysterical co-ruler across the face. Several of the onlooking soldiers staggered backwards in alarm at the scene. Turning his attention away from the soldiers, Red grabbed Purple roughly by the arm and led him away for a moment as he continued to tremble with rage. The Invaders watched like frightened children, frozen in place, as the two argued quietly in the corner of the room.

Red and Purple spoke in muted whispers for a moment, occasionally allowing their voices to raise in hushed tones as they heatedly argued their next strategy. For a time, they seemed to settle down, reaching some sort of consensus. Several of the onlookers shot glances at one another, fearful for their positions and wary of the unknown. After a moment, Red turned for a moment and made brief, accidental eye contact with a certain Invader.

Larb should have known. It shouldn't have taken Red's almost inconspicuous glare to tell him. He stiffened in his spot and began to allow his mind to reel, searching for solutions before even properly assessing the meaning behind the glance. He had dug his own grave by insisting on leading the mission. He would end up taking the brunt of the Tallests' debacle.

His hands clenched into tight fists by his side as the two ceased their private discussion and turned around. They were composed once again in a passive, almost friendly demeanor.

Red held up one hand in a beckoning motion, over their heads and towards the door. "Very well. You are all dismissed, back to your assigned planets or other…places you came from."

The Invaders balked, alarmed at his words. A palpable electricity passed throughout the room for a beat as they exchanged glances, not believing what they had just been ordered, especially after the events mere minutes before. Then, slowly, hesitantly, they started to walk out of the room.

"Except you! You stay!" Those who remained widened their eyes again, following Purple's long, accusingly pointed finger. It stopped at Larb's somewhat startled countenance, and the others sighed in relief and made their own hasty retreats.

The group parted as it made its way to the door, allowing Larb to gaze fearfully up at his leaders. A handful of the previously reticent Irkens snuck glances at the frozen Invader on their way out, amusement gleaning in their eyes at this turn of events.

Gradually, they all dispersed, leaving the three alone in heavy silence. After the last one had cleared out, Larb approached them in his emblematic, vertical and overtly formal stance to accentuate his ranking as an Elite soldier. Both rulers looked down at him in their equally typical and condescending fashion. Their posture appeared more natural and offhanded, however. More intimidating.

Nevertheless, the Invader only straightened further and stared somberly up at them. Gone was the half-crazed expression he had worn earlier, back when he was desperate to kill Zim then and there, desperate to avoid this very confrontation.

Tallest Red spoke first. "Larb. We assigned this mission to you after you so…passionately…assured us you were capable of handling it." The Invader unconsciously shifted his weight to the other leg and shrunk back a bit. "What were your exact words?" he asked, faux nonchalance dripping from his voice.

"I swore loyalty to my Tallest. I promised the defective would no longer be an obstacle."

"Yes, that's what I thought."

Larb squirmed ever so slightly. He flattened his antennae against his skull and held his breath. He was quite sure that their next sentence would pertain to the stripping of his Invader title, his very credibility as a worthy Irken soldier. His conquering of Vort, all for naught. The conceited Elite took in a sharp breath, refusing to allow his composure to falter. He was prepared to contend with every ounce of who he was. He was an expert of manipulation; it had always been his most valuable tool, aiding him dearly in his mission as an Invader.

However, Red turned away from him and proceeded to tuck the canister into a large metal case instead. Casually, as if he had forgotten of Larb's presence and was merely preparing to depart, he turned back to Purple and the two exchanged a knowing glance.

Finally, he spoke again. "Someone will die before the month is through. And if it's not Zim, then it will be you."

Larb's eyes bulged out of his head. He heard the words as if in a trance, as if another embodiment of himself had comprehended them instead. It took a moment for him to process the statement, somewhat detached at they made their way to his brain.

Then, in an instant, he forgot his equability. Gone in the blink of an eye was his carefully practiced arrogance as he bent his knees forward and shrank back on his heels, antennae flattening against his skull before flinging forwards in terror. Hardly recognizable from the front he had put on before, the seasoned Elite began to stammer desperately. "You— _YOU CAN'T DO THAT!_  Only the Control Brains can execute an Irken!"

"Oh, I assure you, there are ways around that. Creative ways." _Ways that never seemed to work for Zim_ , Red added to himself dryly.

And it was true; launching Invaders as part of the cannon sweep, strapping Irkens to ships headed towards massive stars, and sending them on false missions were merely some of the tactics the two corrupt figureheads had used to rid themselves of their enemies.

Unsaid, but understood among the party was the fear behind their scheme to eliminate Zim. It was only one-part blatant homicide. The fear truly lied in the means they had chosen to complete it. The existence of the toxin could not be unleashed onto the general public, nor the Control Brains.

"But…" Larb froze where he stood, petrified by this ultimatum. He blanched and withdrew into himself further, smugness having melted utterly in place of fear. Remaining in a paralyzed half-crouch as the Tallest nonchalantly walked past him towards the door, the stunned Invader held his breath and stared straight ahead in a stupor. On his way out, almost as an afterthought, Red leaned down, close to his right antennae and spoke. The words cut through the air sharply, causing Larb's antennae to quiver and a chill to run down his spine.

"Do I make myself clear, soldier?"

-x-

Now, several days later and icily composed once again, the Invader narrowed his eyes and defiantly gazed at his radar screen. As a member of one of the highest calibers in the Irken military, he had long before gained full access to the guidance processors within all Irken ships. Slowly, as to not raise suspicions, he had been trailing Zim from Conventia to the depths of unknown space, to where he presumed the defect's "assigned" planet must be. Now, though, his rickety old ship appeared to be landing on a nearby planet.

Larb clenched his teeth and prepared to initiate the landing sequence of his own top-of-the-line Zhook Cruiser. He would put an end to this. Killing an Irken was no different than killing a Vortian. Just another job to be done. Just another gateway to bringing honor to the Empire.

* * *

Though he had no other choice, Zim was still rather reluctant to land upon the planet that he had been alerted by. The map on his screen had labeled it as under Irken rule, conquered by Invader Alexovich. Now grounded, the Elite peered apprehensively out of his windshield and distastefully took in his surroundings.

Currently nameless, it must have been claimed by the Empire quite recently, as the aftermath of the Organic Sweep still remained, giving a burned tinge to the air and a desolate, apocalyptic auburn hue to the skies. A mixture of ruins littered the beige dirt and no sign of life, be it plant or animal, was in sight.

The planet had already undergone visible construction that had slowly but surely converted it into an enormous parking structure that included docking bays for ship maintenance and refueling. As it was, though, the section Zim had chosen to land on was apparently void of any other pit stoppers and heavily resembled a barren Earth desert in its current state.

As he descended from the cockpit, the thick smog in the air made it hard to breathe and Zim fought to control the coughing fits that threatened to erupt from within his sore chest. The Irken was fitted with his protective space attire, and almost immediately pressed a button on his neck to activate a translucent, bubble-like helmet to ensure proper breathing in the atmosphere. It seemed to help, if only slightly, against the polluted air.

Behind him, GIR slid out and landed gracefully on his feet before promptly dashing off into the pallid wasteland.

"GIR! Come back here!" the Elite yelled after him.

The robot paid him no heed and continued to romp away from the repair structure, entering a dead field of dirt and ruins beyond. He cheered and stretched his legs, bounding carelessly around in frenzied little circles as Zim stared on, tapping his foot impatiently. After a moment, Zim sighed and began to run after him.

Deep shadows stretched over the two figures as Zim chased his robot, though he was almost instantly winded from the endeavor. The Irken slowed to a stop after about a hundred paces, panting and coughing, bent over with his hands resting on his knees. At this point, GIR was a mere dot in the distance as he frolicked on in the gravel.

Zim wheezed out GIR's name again and furrowed his brow. He didn't have time for this. Something inside him was not functioning the way it should be. Worriedly, he turned he head to look back at the idle Voot Runner.

He needed to get back to his base. He couldn't afford to waste time playing childish games on this filthy, unnamed dirtball of a planet. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Zim would have to run a diagnostic on both his PAK and his biological shell. In the meantime, he only hoped he could wait it out until they returned.

As he became preoccupied with catching his breath, the deranged little robot turned a wide circle and made a beeline back over to him, skidding on the gravel and ramming straight into the irate Irken. Zim grunted as he toppled over into the dirt, limbs flailing.

GIR smiled dopily and sat on his chest. "Hi!"

"Get off me, GIR! NOW!" he yelled, shoving his grinning servant to the side. With visible difficulty, he rose to his feet and dusted off his uniform before stomping back towards the Voot. "We need to get back to our mission! If you aren't going to be useful, then at least stay out of my way!" Zim called back behind him.

* * *

Larb paid care to ensure his own ship was hidden from sight. He could not risk it being noticed by Zim or any others, for fear of what even the most moronic failure of an Irken soldier was capable of. By a stroke of pure luck, though, the area was void of any other passersby, Irken or otherwise.

He rounded the corner, unable to see any more than Zim's ancient Voot Runner, in the midst of refueling and basic maintenance. However, the sounds of jubilant shouting echoed throughout the canyonlike ruins of the surrounding area. As Larb neared closer, he could see a metal shape stumbling around, shouting and throwing up its arms in delight.

Instantly recognizing it as the defective's insane SIR unit, the seasoned Invader paused for a moment and watched it incredulously. If anything, it served the opposite purpose of what it was supposed to. It was cruelly fitting that an Irken as substandard as Zim would receive a malfunctioning SIR to assist him. What was even more pathetic was the fact that it would only be expected for someone as foolish as Zim to bother keeping such a hindrance around.

Larb grinned maliciously. First order of business: take care if what the technicians back on Conventia had failed to do.

* * *

Now at an acceptable fuel level, the Voot was in the process of being automatically diagnosed for any inefficiencies.

The weary soldier was standing in front of his ship with both hands on his hips, glancing stoically around himself. No matter how undesirable his current setting, it still allowed him the ability to refuel his ship and run a diagnostic on it, for which he was silently relieved. For the last two hours, GIR had been screaming like a banshee and running around the repair bay, stopping every now and again to announce something inane or non-sequitur in his master's general direction. Now though, he was suspiciously quiet.

Zim picked at a loose string on his glove and sighed impatiently. Another few moments passed before the Voot was declared safe for long-distance space travel.

"Finally! You're lucky you have my brilliance, GIR, to counter your…not…brilliance…" Zim trailed off awkwardly, observing the ship's left thruster.

He looked around after a few seconds, but the robot was nowhere in sight. He sighed once more.

"GIR!  _GIR!_  Where  _are_  you?"

No reply. Zim let out a peevish growl and marched off in search of him. His boots kicked up dust and gravel as he trudged around the other side of his Voot, towards the large, open area where GIR had been playing.

All was silent for a moment as the Irken scanned the empty wasteland. Then, suddenly, something whistled past him, inches from his left antenna. Zim whipped around, facing the ruins of what once was a large building. He recognized the sound of the shot as that of a handgun, not unlike the one he was carrying in his own pocket.

Almost immediately following the first, another shot fired at him, just barely missing his face. Zim yelped and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He searched the area and quickly retreated behind another ruin nearby. Mechanically, he reached towards his own weapon and felt its shape through the thick material of his maroon spacesuit. Thankful for its presence, Zim pulled it out and fired blindly in the general direction of the shooter.

"You dare open fire at an Irken Elite? REVEAL YOURSELF!" He popped his head out from behind the structure and scanned the zone directly in front of him. The only answer he received, though, was yet another blast of the firearm, which hit the remains of building he was huddled behind and caused a cloud of dust to explode from the afflicted area.

The little Irken clenched his teeth, sweat beginning to form on his forehead as he racked his brain and tried to remember his former training. Simulations back at the academy had taught him the tactics needed in instances of guerilla warfare, but he had all but purged them from his mind once his Invader training had taken the forefront of his priorities.

He lifted his gun in a somewhat shaky hand and fired again. This time, immediately following his squeeze on the trigger was a small yelp of pain as the shot connected with flesh. Zim's feelers perked in mild surprise at the sound. When no further shots from the other party arose, he meekly appeared from behind his shelter and approached the ruins opposite from him, weapon still brandished between his two hands.

As he rounded the corner, standing behind a tall, crooked chunk of decimated wall was a helmeted form clutching his left arm tightly with his right and grunting scornfully. Several feet away in the dirt, knocked from his grip, was a plum-colored Irken handgun.

For a split second, Zim watched the strange figure favor what appeared to be a minor flesh wound, taking notice of the garb in which he was clad; the crisp pink Invader uniform, identical to his own, and a large helmet that served primarily to conceal his identity.

"Who are you?" Zim demanded, unconsciously letting his own revolver drop to his side in his befuddlement. His attacker was…another Irken?

At the sound of his voice, the assailant quickly turned to meet his gaze seemingly for the first time. Without answering, he released his arm and turned to face his target head on.

Before Zim could react, the disguised Larb abruptly activated his PAK legs and hunched forward, poised for attack. Thin rivulets of emerald blood dripped from his left arm and down one hand, saturating the pink fabric of his sleeve as he shifted.

The smaller Irken blanched and staggered away, mentally ordering his PAK to do the same and activate his own mechanical limbs. He waited for a second, but nothing happened. No explosion of metal legs to give him a much-needed advantage in both height and stealth. He quirked his brow and tried again, willing his organic brain to connect with the PAK. Again, no response. Unconsciously, he began to back away. Zim's heart lurched in his chest and he started to break out in a cold sweat as he turned to meet the eyes of the aggressor.

Now towering over his adversary, Larb scanned the area menacingly from his new vantage point. Zim followed his gaze to the fallen maroon handgun, laying uselessly in the dirt several feet away where it had been flung out of his grip from his lucky shot.

At that moment, Zim was suddenly reminded of his own revolver, which he was still holding at his side in one limp hand. Quickly, he raised his arms and held it out in front of him. Before he could make a decent aim, though, the other Irken lunged at him, knocking it out of his claws in one fell swoop with a single PAK leg. Zim growled and stumbled backwards, his bottom hitting the dirt from the impact.

He opened his eyes and glanced around himself. They were both now weaponless. Slowly rising and backing away in retreat once again, his eyes simultaneously drifted downwards to a small, metallic object laying half-tucked behind the ruins of the wall. Still as could be, it glinted in the sun, juxtaposing brilliantly against the dusty gravel. The small body was limp as a ragdoll and the blank, hollow expression on its face made Zim's eyes widen in shock. GIR.

The Elite continued to stagger away while Larb encroached on him slowly. Zim's heart skipped a beat as he glanced frantically around himself, trying to gather his options of escape. He tried to activate his PAK legs once more, heart rate hastening when the effort offered him no avail.

Meanwhile, his attacker raised one of his own mechanical limbs above himself, the tip alight with a small blue flame. Sucking in a deep breath, Zim paused and tensed his muscles, taking in the gossamer light of the blaze in awe. A stab wound from a PAK limb could be fatal, the ends of the metal appendages sharp as razors.

At the last second, before the leg could come down on him, Zim lunged forwards. Larb, taken aback, watched as the small, agile figure scurried beneath his PAK legs and towards the area behind him.

Assuming he was after his fallen weapon, Larb retracted his mechanical limbs and set his eyes on Zim's gun, hurrying to reach it before him. However, Zim was not after his firearm; instead, he hastily scooped up GIR's body and took off after his Voot as rapidly as his heart could handle.

The little Irken felt dread taking hold on him as he sprinted towards refuge. Within seconds, he began to pant and break out anew in sweat. He silently cursed whatever weakness had befallen him and pressed on, the Voot appearing larger and larger in front of him, GIR's limp form pressed firmly to his chest.

Without taking the time to look back, Zim hurled himself and GIR into the cockpit and ignited the engine with more fervor than he ever had before. Instantly, the ship rose through the air and hurdled towards space, leaving Larb in the dust for the second time.

-x-

After several minutes of trying to quell his frantic breathing, Zim turned to one of his control monitors.

"Com… _puter_ ," he wheezed. "Take…all s-systems offline." The computer paused for a moment, as if in apprehension, before slowly complying.

Zim's chest visibly rose up and down as he continually drank in stale, recycled air and tried to maneuver his way into space. Taking his entire ship offline was a serious risk. Not only would tracking him be impossible, but it meant no outside forces could make any contact with his ship whatsoever. If he were to infringe on enemy territory, he would be none the wiser.

In utter silence, Zim set the coordinates to Earth yet again and sat stiffly in his pilot's chair. For several moments, he stared straight ahead, half expecting his pursuer to appear behind him. But after nearly an hour, nothing materialized.

He had lost him. He could not be tracked. He was safe for now...

Thoroughly in shock from the previous events, Zim made his way to the back of his Voot and towards GIR's prone form. In his retreat, he had deposited him near the storage hatch. Now, picking up his servant's tiny, wilted body, Zim examined the damage thoughtfully. His exterior was slightly scuffed and dirty, and his right arm was disconnected at the shoulder.

SIR units were easy to fix. And GIR got into so much trouble on a daily basis, Zim had grown accustomed to making frequent repairs, even going so far as to keep spare parts in his storage room. Now, though he would never admit it to a soul, a flicker of concern danced across his face. He set GIR down again and tried to summon a welding tool from his PAK to mend GIR's dislocated arm. As he expected, though, nothing happened.

Among the profusion of disconcerting and outright horrifying events that had befallen Zim, one of the most worrisome was this new development. For the next several minutes, Zim tried to mentally will the PAK to obey his organic brain. It was as if something wasn't processing. Finally, something clicked and he was able to get it functioning just enough to deposit a small welding tool into his hand.

Crinkling his brow in concern, the Irken silently went to work on the snarl of exposed wires that protruded from Gir's shoulder. Anything to distract him from his own physical dilemma. After completing that task, he opened the SIR unit's head and examined the slots where the guidance chip and memory storage resided. Both slots were empty. Zim cocked his head to the side and set GIR down on the floor. He would have to make those repairs back on Earth. In the meantime, the robot would just have to wait.

His fears slowly infringing upon him once more, the Irken made his way back to his seat and sat down, listening to the droning of the Voot's engine and the ominous quiet from the lack of GIR's little voice. Then, at the helm of his ship, he prepared to enter hyperspace. He could not return to Earth soon enough.

* * *

A melancholy air mingled with slight desperation and accompanied the ominous glow coming from the Membrane household's garage as the dash lit up on Tak's ship. Quietly, almost meekly, a voice broke through the stillness.

"Establish connection with Zim's ship."

Silence. After a moment, the echo of a barking dog called in the distance. Dew dripped from fresh, growing grass and signified the beginnings of a springtime that had previously been stifled by the fluke snowstorms of the past few weeks. The overcast dawn of a new day brought with it a lovely sense of mysticism and spread across the entire neighborhood as the rest of the world slowly awoke. All was peaceful and serene, light rain pattering on the roof of the hollow, metal garage and mingling with the sounds of whirring technology.

_"Failure to connect with Irken Space Vessel VR-86967."_

The outline of the boy at the helm of the idle ship hung his head slightly. He didn't know why he was back here, revisiting the memories of the week before and trying to contact his mortal enemy. Perhaps, if nothing else, just to know for sure that his suspicions were correct. That Zim was, in fact, dead. Just to have some closure.

Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered out into the foggy morning air with a flinty stare upon his countenance and weariness in his stride.

_There's your closure, Dib. Are you happy now?_

-x-

Dib ambled into his first period class a few moments late. Though springtime had overtaken the snow piles on the sides of the road, a chilled breeze still touched down in the early mornings. The boy could feel his cheeks stinging with cold and rain and he immediately became warmer as he entered the classroom. He sat down and pulled out a pencil, then snuck an automatic glance at Zim's desk.

In an instant, his blood froze and jolted him out of his sleepy haze. For, to his absolute astonishment, there sat none other than Zim himself.


	7. Of Cheap Shots and the Art of Keeping up Appearances

The Irken was slumped forward and gazing apathetically at the extensive notes on American authors written on the whiteboard with both arms limply hanging at his sides as the bespectacled figure of his nemesis gawked from across the classroom.

Dib watched him incredulously, and as if in a haze, went so far as to wipe the sleep from his eyes, convinced that Zim's presence was nothing more than a demented illusion. Then, immediately following, a floodgate of emotions burst through the boy's veins in an icy mix of bewilderment, resentment, and unfathomable relief as he clutched the edges of his desk. In his inquietude, he choked out a few incomprehensible words of disbelief, arousing the attention of the classmates sitting beside him. They glanced at him in varying states of mild amusement and annoyance before returning to their own conversations.

If Zim himself heard the boy's peculiar display of incredulity, he paid it no regard. The alien merely scowled at the board and swiped some of the hair from his wig out of his face. Though his brow remained furrowed in evident unease, he kept his chin propped lazily on one hand as he fixed his rather severe gaze in front of him.

After a moment of collecting himself, Dib's mouth, agape with the newfound revelation that had been bestowed upon him, closed abruptly and he pursed his lips as his shock was stifled a bit with a new confusion.

Zim was alive, clearly. But something about the alien appeared a tad off. The conflicting body language perplexed the boy.

Zim's eyelids drooped wearily over his violet contact lenses and his skinny shoulders were slumped forwards over the desk. His ever-present crimson and black uniform was slightly disheveled, as was his bouffant wig. Yet he gazed forward with utmost severity, as if not truly seeing the board, but rather lost in his own thoughts.

Dib quirked one eyebrow and continued to stare. While Zim tried to remain passive at best, his nemesis kept up a disarming persistence at spying on him to make up for it. Finally, Zim opened one eye a bit wider and turned to his left to look over at the boy, grimacing when he refused to break eye contact. It was the first time the two had seen each other in nearly two weeks.

At once, the silence was broken by the monotonous voice of Mr. Davis as he started class. A tremor ran through both Zim and Dib as the interruption sliced the air and brought them back down to earth. After a moment, Zim broke his gaze, leaving Dib to sustain his own intense scrutinizing.

"Remember, ethos is appeal to ethics. Pathos is appeal to emotions. And Logos is…" the teacher droned on as Dib unabashedly kept his entire body turned to the side in his desk, facing Zim head-on.

The alien looked as if he were in a stupor. After several moments of slouching in his seat, his head began to continuously droop over his blank notebook. It dipped downwards, then was jerkily brought back up repeatedly, as if Zim were in the process of dozing before catching himself in the act.

Dib watched this happen a few times in utter befuddlement. In a bizarre twist, this behavior was rather typical for a first period class filled with lackadaisical high school students. At that very moment, various classmates were dozing and passing notes while the teacher's back was turned.

The boy also took note of Zim's unkempt clothing. Similarly, it wasn't unlike the majority of their peers, who were typically clad in sweats and sporting uncombed hair. However, Dib knew that Zim prided himself on his physical appearance, never failing to maintain his own style as a blatant perfectionist.

If Dib had any clue what was happening, he would have been suspicious. But alas, he could only feel his previous hollowness become filled with overwhelming confusion in the wake of it all.

As the class occupied themselves with their own antics, little of which actually concerned American English, Mr. Davis was seemingly engrossed in the material written up on the whiteboard. While the others dozed and chatted, he continued to lecture monotonously. Even he didn't care enough to reprimand students, who evidently found the class to be a waste. Zim blinked and rested his head on his desk.

After about half an hour of failing to get his attention again, Dib tore out a sheet of lined filler paper from his notebook. With the fringe still intact, he scrawled furiously on it in idiosyncratic chicken scratch handwriting.

_Where were you?_

He then proceeded to fold it over several times. When the teacher's back was turned again, Dib poised it in front of him and flicked it across the room, watching as it landed slightly askew beneath Zim's desk.

The Irken lazily trailed the direction of the note's arrival with his eyes and, after a beat, bent down to pick it up. He looked up again at Dib, this time narrowing his eyes a bit more spitefully. The boy just fixed his eyes on him in anticipation. Instead of reading and responding to the message, however, his expectations were dampened as Zim merely tossed the still-folded paper into the wastebasket beside his desk.

Suddenly, the bell rang, causing the little alien to jump a bit in apparent alarm. He hastily gathered his materials and joined the horde of students pouring out into the hallway.

Dib, in turn, threw his pencil and notebook into his backpack and followed in hot pursuit, looking frantically around for him. He merely caught a glimpse of green skin before quickly losing the Irken amongst the throng of people walking to second period. Cursing under his breath, the boy resigned himself and headed to his respective classroom as well.

* * *

Zim sat in his next class, posture wavering into territory he seldom allowed himself to fall under. His head wilted over his desk in a grandiose display of utter exhaustion and, just like before, his eyelids felt heavy. Every now and again, his breathing would hitch in his throat and manifest itself into a bout of coughing that he struggled to contain in the presence of his classmates.

Overall, the vibe of the classroom was similar to his first, save for the absence of the Dib creature. While it was nothing short of a relief to be rid of the prying paranormal investigator, the Irken still felt the pressure of his own overwhelmed mind mingle with an ever-growing weariness in his bones.

For between his PAK malfunctions, weakened biological shell, GIR's repairs, and whatever strange rogue Irken had tried to hunt him down, Zim was caught in a maelstrom of anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to focus on any one objective. So, he had purged himself of it all through the first means he could find: by returning to his mission.

-x-

Upon arriving back on Earth the night before, Zim had wordlessly and morosely landed the Voot in his own docking bay. Once the engine cut, though, he made no move to leave the confines of the cockpit, instead taking a few moments to sit and stare blankly ahead of himself. It was as if the events of the past week or so had finally caught up with him in all of its complexity and crippling uncertainty. And Zim was tired.

He was quickly roused from his stupor, however, as the aching silence of the house and absence of GIR's prattle seemed to nearly swallow him whole. Alone in the utter solidarity, the small Irken felt his heartbeat increase despite what should have been a relief to be back at his base.

Sluggishly, he rose from his seat and lifted GIR's tiny, limp body from where he had been placed beside the storage hatch. The robot's hollow grey eyes and neutral expression made Zim uneasy and the still-present dusting of reddish dirt that clung to GIR's metallic body stained his black gloves as he handled him.

"Computer," his voice rang out in the silence, "take me to the main laboratory."

He stepped onto a platform and was lowered down into the bowels of his base, back to the familiar twists and turns of his well-concealed inner dwelling.

Zim languidly stepped of the elevator and into his lab, setting GIR on a table, amongst a horde of instruments and tools. He stared at the robot with an odd display of emotions across his face, as if daunted by the sight. Then, rather weakly, he turned back to the elevator. First things first.

"Medical bay," he ordered simply, almost listlessly. He stepped onto the platform and crossed his arms. Zim wanted to believe he was unstoppable, thwarted by nothing. But like all creatures, he feared the unknown and his PAK's newly developed malfunctions had been a physical cue that he simply could not ignore. Unhurriedly, he was lowered once again to an even deeper sector of his base.

The medical bay was comprised of several pieces of equipment for Irken use. A platform was used to scan any biological entity and make diagnostics of injury or illness. The computer could then produce a variety of drugs, if need be, from a special reserve. Other, less savory parts of the med bay included a surgical room, complete with all necessary equipment, and a manual charging cell.

Zim headed for the scanner and stood with his feet about shoulder width apart on the platform.

"Computer, run a physical diagnostic on me."

He waited while the scanners flashed up and down his body, over his skinny arms and legs, pausing for a moment as they reached his PAK. For several seconds, they grazed every inch of him, from the tips of his clawed toes to the ends of his kinked antennae. Finally they ceased, and a screen popped up, accompanied by the voice of the computer.

_"Diagnosis: PAK inefficiency resulting in a weakened biological shell and immune system."_

"I know that! I could have told you THAT!" Zim yelled, exasperated. His voice came out with a slight, croaky edge. "I want to know  _why_!"

He began to shift his feet nervously, despite his outburst. He could think of no plausible reason for this development; he had not overexerted himself physically nor had be become disconnected from his PAK. It rested between his shoulder blades as it always had since birth, a sacred embodiment of his very being, the reason for both his very existence and his current frustrations.

Just for kicks, while the computer continued to process his scans, Zim tried to summon the communication device from within it. It came out halfway before the PAK gave up on him and left it hanging awkwardly from its opening. Zim sighed. This seemed to be happening more and more as of the past couple days: either the PAK wouldn't respond at all or it would only respond briefly and insufficiently. He spent the next few moments trying to retract it. Finally giving up, Zim snaked his left arm around himself and shoved the half-exposed monitor screen back into its place.

Finally, he glanced back up at the screen right as the computer finished processing its information.  _"Unknown contaminant present."_

"And what is this contaminant?" Zim demanded impatiently.

_"Insufficient data."_

The Irken nearly exploded with rage. "Insufficient data? I am your master, and this is my LIFE! I order you to research every possible reason and outcome!"

He started to tremble with anger as the computer went through various ailments native to both Irk and Earth.

_"Proper research may take time. Rest in manual charging cell heavily recommended."_

Zim put his hands on his hips. He was still shaking, but this time it was for a different reason. "W-well, get on with it, then!" he ordered, his voice cracking a bit.

He eyed the charging cell warily. The little cubicle was specifically designed for those who suffered from PAK inefficiencies. Essentially, it worked through a cable that plugged into a port located on the bottom of said PAK, providing it and the biological shell with energy. It could be used for any array of issues, either as a quick pick-me-up or, in more dire circumstances, a means to sustain the basic life functions of dying Irkens.

It was a rather odd machine, and one that Zim hardly ever used. He decided to allow that trend to continue, instead turning to make his way back upstairs while the computer calculated his symptoms.

He briefly considered going down to the equipment room to get supplies for Gir, but quickly decided against it for the time being. He didn't have the energy to work on the repairs at the moment, never mind put up with the robot's little antics once they were completed.

So Zim stood dumbly in his living room, considering his options.

Then, a new thought crept into his head. It had been nearly two weeks since anyone had seen him. Considering that Zim believed himself a master at the art of keeping up appearances and appearing normal in the face of humanity, this miscalculation left him mildly flustered.

He looked around. Seeing that he refused to rest, or work on GIR, and he would rather forget the entirety of the last several days…Zim walked reluctantly to his front door.

More than anything, though, he needed a distraction.

"Computer, bring me my disguise. I'm going to skool."

* * *

Now, several classrooms away from Zim, his scythe-haired arch nemesis sat and stared out the window, lost in his own unpleasant thoughts. As a result, he didn't focus very clearly on the lecture, though the teacher assured the students that, should they fail to pay attention during class, the course would be their tragic downfall once graduation came around.

All he could think of was Zim. To say he was puzzled would be an understatement.

The alien, without explanation, had disappeared to some far-off planet, evidently escaped an assassination, and was now sitting in class somewhere bored out of his mind?

If he weren't left in such absolute perplexion, Dib would have found the whole situation rather comical. Either way, the irrational and obsessive part of Dib felt he deserved an explanation.

After second period came lunch. Dib couldn't hurry to the cafeteria soon enough, rapt as he was with an undeniable need to obtain information through any means necessary.

He found Zim sitting alone at a lunch table in the corner of the cafeteria. Again, he was struck by the odd way the little alien was carrying himself. He seemed to melt where he sat, his head drooped over his lunch tray and his eyes tired and unfocused. Dib pondered this with vague confusion, but pressed on nonetheless.

He stood silently in front of Zim as his mind flooded with the accursed thoughts of the last week. He continued to stare at his lunch, then shuddered slightly and pushed the tray away. After a few more seconds, his dulled senses recognized Dib's presence and he slowly lifted his head to meet his gaze in distaste.

"Well? What do you want?" he demanded when Dib refused to speak.

"What is this? How are you back?" The boy gestured wildly around the table for some reason, as if expecting Zim to automatically connect the dots without any context. He had never been much of a people person and his awkwardness trailed him throughout adolescence. If anything, it had grown in recent years.

As to be expected, Zim merely shot him a lethal expression and waved him off. "Go be insane somewhere else." He began to turn in preparation to leave but was stopped by Dib's next interjection.

"No! I demand an explanation!" Dib banged his fist erratically on the table. His voice raised in pitch, as it usually did when he was agitated.

"Where were you? And how did you get out of there?"

Dib was hardly making sense, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of it. Somehow, it didn't hinder him from spewing his vexations at the tired-looking Irken.

"ANSWER ME!" Dib's entire body began to tremble at the continued silence from his nemesis, though something of a wary expression seemed to manifest itself on Zim's formerly blank face.

Heads started to turn at the sound of Dib's outburst. Zim regarded them coolly before swinging his legs out of the bench and walking away from the boy.

Dib watched him depart through the double doors leading to the playground, then dropped his gaze to the untouched tray of food Zim had left on the table.

The Irken had changed. He no longer held the same fixation on Dib that the boy seemed to have on him. In fact, he often tried to avoid him, or at the very least, ignore him. Dib had noticed it long before, but it only seemed to strengthen his resolve at the time. While Zim had tired of the human's schemes, Dib wasn't so quick to outgrow his own obsessions. They had whirled around, trapped in the same hellish circle of cliched threats and ploys for years. Dib had grown to see Zim's faults and did not see him as much of a threat anymore, but rather a safety net. It only took a mere few days to see it as it was, plain and clear. And the child inside of him wasn't ready to let go.

This time, for better or worse, he had played a part in ensuring Zim's safety back on Conventia. Never before had selflessness held a place their motives. All had been self-concerned, bitter, and resentful. Something about this little action going unacknowledged made him feel cheated, sick to his stomach even.

He decided to change tactics. He needed to tell Zim something, anything, just to get a reaction out of him.

Zim now sat on a bench near the edge of the blacktop, engrossed in some sort of Irken tablet. He caressed the screen placidly as Dib approached him again.

"Can you not take a hint, Dib-stink? Leave me alone! Your colossal head is in my light." As to be expected, he looked undeniably irritated. But there was something else in his tone as well, as if he were distracted with more pressing issues than Dib's head. The boy noticed that the alien had inexplicably started to break out in a mild sweat as well, despite the nip to the air.

"Zim, seriously! Listen to me! I  _really_  need to talk to you. I know about the other Irkens! They were going to kill you! They might  _still_  be trying to kill you.  _What happened?"_

The words spluttered out of his mouth, sending a wave of electricity down his spine as he voiced them. It was as if he, himself, were processing it for the first time.

To his utter amazement, something in the statement seemed to arouse Zim's attention as well, for the Irken immediately snapped his head up to meet his enemy's gaze.

"Heh? What are you playing at, human?" he spat, his eyes immediately narrowing to slits. He looked conflicted, suddenly suspicious of the boy.

_Anything to get a reaction._  With newfound adrenaline coursing through his body at the mere indication of finally being acknowledged, Dib shifted so that he was standing dangerously close to the alien. Zim smelled like Elmer's glue and hand sanitizer.

Almost immediately, his counterpart squirmed away uncomfortably. Putting distance between them once more, Zim turned again to stare at him, both in expectation and malice. The pint-sized spitfire of an alien seemed to steadily brim with fury.

Dib, however, still rapt with excitement that Zim was actually reciprocating, briskly ignored the sudden hostility. He started to yell in a whisper, even though there was nobody within their vicinity.

"I listened in on the Invader convention thing! I heard it myself over radio broadcasts! These other Irkens, and…and your leaders! They were saying all this…stuff! About your mission being a fake and how you're a danger to your own people. I—"

"SILENCE!" He leapt to his feet abruptly and glared daggers at the erratic paranormal wannabe. Dib merely stared back in the hopes that something had gotten through to him.

"Zim, I know what it sounds like. But you have to believe me! Your leaders! They want you dead!"

At that, something within Zim snapped. At once, he lunged forward and with uncharacteristic strength, shoved the boy roughly to the ground.

Dib grunted as he hit the pavement, then glanced around him. The action had garnered the attention of a few students in the schoolyard. They surrounded the two on the blacktop in curiosity, seeking an entertaining fight. Dib stood up on shaky legs. The heels of his hands were scuffed, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Zim moved in until he was uncomfortably close to his archrival. Though he had to strain to make eye contact with Dib and his increased height, the Irken compensated quite well with his hot temper.

"SILENCE! How dare you spout these LIES? And since when do you care about the life of ZIM?! We hate each other!  _Remember_?" Dib stood in dumbfounded silence as the Irken poked a gloved finger into his chest to emphasize certain words. Zim then tottered to the side, as if dizzy from this feat.

"Fine, Zim! Don't believe me! I'm not the one who has a death plot against me!"

Zim practically convulsed with rage. He continued to sweat, and his hair hung limply over tired-looking purple irises, but these actions were overshadowed by his wrath. The Irken was like a ticking time bomb, and he had finally detonated.

More students steadily circled the two, gawking at the sight with zeal.

Before he could consider just how much attention he was drawing to himself, Zim balled up one gloved hand into a fist, reeled back and punched Dib so hard in the face, the boy spun around and dropped to the ground in a heap. Zim winced as a dull pain shot through his arm from the impact. His glove was torn near the knuckles where it had connected with Dib's mouth.

Dib lay prone on the ground in front of him for several seconds. Then, to the alien's astonishment, he unsteadily rose once more, his eyes unfocused and barely clinging to consciousness. Blood trickled from his lip and dribbled down his chin. An almost insane expression crossed his face and he smirked wildly at Zim, spitting a tooth into his face before collapsing back onto the blacktop.

And before the Irken could even give his actions a moment's thought, he was yanked roughly by his collar and dragged off dazedly to the principal's office.

* * *

Dib awoke some time later, confused to find himself lying on a plastic-covered bed in the nurse's office. The bright, florescent lights overhead whirled dizzily as he slowly regained his consciousness. The boy moaned softly. He lifted a hand and touched gently at the tenderness at his lip, where he felt an intense throbbing.

Then, pushing his body up with his scuffed hands, he weakly sat up. Adjusting to his surroundings, he then walked slowly to the bathroom attached to the little resting area and examined himself in the mirror dully. The lower half of his face ached and his lip was visibly swollen. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and cringed slightly at the damage Zim had caused.

It was far from their first physical brawl, but it was the most public one to date.

Outside the office, students filled the hallways, undoubtedly jabbering about the debacle on the blacktop outside and exacerbating it with rumors. Dib also knew that just around the corner, Zim was awaiting his punishment at the hands of the Skool principal. The thought filled Dib with slight satisfaction in his anger.

He gargled some water in an attempt to rid himself of the taste of blood in his mouth and walked out of the little room. He began to head towards the door to head back to class, but paused midstride before he left the office. He didn't see Zim in front of the principal's office. Old habits die hard, and Dib's curiosity got the best of him. He approached the bored-looking receptionist.

She appeared to be rather young, though it was hard to tell beneath what must have been years of spirit-crushing apathy in a thankless, mundane job. She had a permanent scowl and wire-rimmed glasses. Her beige cardigan made her already pale face appear even more washed out and her brown hair was tied in a messy bun on the back of her head.

"What happened to Zim?" Dib demanded, without so much as greeting.

She looked down laconically at him, taking note of his busted face. "Oh, he was sent home about ten minutes ago."

Dib's brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"

The receptionist sighed and typed something on her computer. Elsewhere in the office, a phone rang distantly. Dib shifted his weight. He was getting impatient. Finally, she looked up again and shrugged.

"Nurse's orders."

Dib's bewildered look deepened and his voice became shrill as he answered. "Nurse's orders? He wasn't injured! He's lying! I didn't even touch him! He knocked  _me_  out! He just wanted to get out of going to the principal's office or getting detention or whatever!"

The receptionist regarded him blandly for a moment, a hint of irritation in her voice as she spoke again. "Yeah, but I guess when the nurse examined him, he was running a fever or something. We can't have disease plaguing the halls, you know."

"But—"

"Look, I don't know the details. Now get back to class, kid. Before I send  _you_  to the principal's office." She then returned to her computer, leaving Dib more confused than ever before.


	8. Of Breaking Points and Human Persistence

Continuing a trend of unusual mannerisms, Zim seemed to forget his militaristic march and dignified composure, instead opting for a languid trudge as he headed down the familiar path in the direction of his base. He felt the cold springtime air whistle down his throat and into his overworked lungs as he wheezed and clenched his teeth at the persistent stinging in his right hand.

The Irken unconsciously balled his fists in irritation, wincing in startled pain as the movement opened the cuts and caused them to weep once more. Glancing upwards, the very same breeze washing over the dew of sweat on his feverish brow, he absently decided to cut through the park, concurrently removing one glove to examine his bloodied knuckles as he did so.

He silently cursed his current predicament and examined the scrapes with two parts resentment and one part fear as small flecks of blood dappled the hem of his sleeve. A very large part of him was concerned that it had not already healed. Irkens were notoriously swift in this feat, a trait they credited to their PAKs. What would otherwise be a lethal injury to a lesser lifeform would, to an Irken, be nothing more than an unpleasant memory in less than a day's time, leaving not even a scar to tell the story.

Instead, Zim's torn skin earned its place in his ever-growing reserve of anxieties with each drip of emerald blood on the concrete beneath his feet, acting as yet another hallmark to whatever was wrong with him. Clutching the limp glove tighter in his left hand, he continued walking down the sidewalk and through Hurt Park.

The grassy area was filled with towering oaks and large pine trees, offering a choice view of the city from its highest point. Nearby, a playground had been constructed, making it a prime location for families and the place was often filled with mirthful children and their parents. All things considered, the park was one of the more desirable attributes to the neighborhood. It was all the same to Zim, though; just another vile construct of humanity.

One of the most notable features was its close proximity to the town's cemetery, in which the two were adjacent. The "cemetery", from what Zim could gather, was a place in which the humans buried their deceased. They visited them, sometimes cleaning their headstones and adorning them with notes and flowers. It was just another sentiment that he could not fathom.

No such place existed on Irk; deceased Irkens were stripped of their PAKs and cremated immediately following their deaths. The PAKs then went to the Control Brains, to be added to the collective. That was how  _they_  lived on; through the whole of their race's knowledge.

Zim never went to the human burial ground, although he often passed by it. He had never had a reason to. Every now and then, though, he would see Dib strolling back from this area.

The alien would be out walking GIR through the park in a desperate attempt the calm the hyper little robot, striding grumpily among the dead patches of grass, litter, and vagrant humans, when he would see the unmistakable silhouette of the boy exiting through the large steel gates that led directly to the sidewalk.

It used to be a rare occurrence, almost an anomaly. Within the last six months, however, it had become more and more frequent. Almost every time Zim found himself in the park, usually in the late afternoon between school and his precious hours allotted for mission planning, he would see the boy's departing figure.

It wasn't only that, though, but Dib's disposition during these occasions greatly puzzled him. Each time, without fail, he was gently composed with a thoughtful expression on his face and what looked like a plethora of emotion in his deep, hazel eyes. Several times, he even walked straight past Zim, seeing nothing and feeling everything all at once. Not sparing a moment to insult or shoot the alien a glare, just engrossed in his own private stupor.

For every detail that Dib did not know about Zim and his home world, Zim held a mutual ignorance to the boy and the peculiarities of mankind as a whole. It made him anxious to see Dib grow older, for the gangly young teenager was now continually offering a novel perspective in his new, mild-mannered state. Catching Zim off guard.

He no longer wore his heart on his sleeve, preferring to fall into a state of dreamy pensiveness in the presence of others. For a time, Zim earnestly believed that the boy was plotting something against him, playing with his judgement and giving him reason to be suspicious. But after a time, the Irken began to see something else in the boy's eyes, something that didn't concern him in the least. It was a certain softness, a second-guessing nature that he couldn't understand.

And yet it only took seconds for the human to revert back to his old, high-strung nature. Zim glared back down at his torn glove gain.  _It was his fault!_

_His_  filthy mouth that had prompted the Irken to take such measures.  _Dib made him do it._  And it was because of  _him_  that he had gotten in trouble, dragged to the admin office to be reprimanded by those vile skool humans!

-x-

Not even a full hour before, Zim had been hauled down to the principal's quarters, fury and distress gleaming off of him with each step as he continually pushed the mop of fake hair out of his face with one hand and stumbled over his own feet.

The stern, hulking teacher who had witnessed the incident held a strong grip on his upper arm as she pulled him along. She hardly gave him room to keep up, too concerned in chastising him on his actions.

In the midst of his dilemma, the Invader tried to recall ever seeing her before, but honestly couldn't place this particular human. It didn't help that he still occasionally had trouble telling them apart from one another, such were their similarities.

Based on her gruff demeanor and baggy sweat suit, though, he eventually decided that she must be one of the gym teachers. She smelled like sweat and turf and Zim found himself cringing away in disgust at the earthy stench.

The smell mingled nauseatingly with the overwhelming scent of discount air freshener that wafted thickly in the admin office as they burst through the door and the tile floors were quickly replaced by stained brown carpeting beneath Zim's feet as he scrambled over the threshold. The entire area was bland and outdated, much like the rest of the hi skool.

The two headed straight towards the principal's office. Zim glanced around himself and began making indignant grunting noises as he frantically tried to pull away, despite his obvious disadvantage in size.

Then, as they walked past the skool infirmary, the nurse popped her head out of her office at the sound of the commotion.

"What's going on here?" she asked innocently in her soft, pleasant voice. It was laced with concern, though her tone seemed mildly staged and a bit overly dramatic.

Her gaze immediately dropped down to Zim, taking in his sickly appearance and rumpled clothes. His gaunt, sunken eyes were rimmed with deep circles and his chest heaved from the exhaustion of trying to pull away from the gym teacher.

He warily met her stare and, in his dim state of mind, slowly began to recognize her as the very same nurse who had deemed him a "healthy little child" years earlier when he had come down with head pigeons. She was a short, plump woman with light brown hair wound tightly into a bun and a broad smile on her face. She was the sort of person who exuded kindness, despite appearing not entirely genuine.

A look of mutual recognition seemed to dawn on her face as well at the sight of him, for her smile widened further and she beamed down at him. Zim shyly stared back up at her, regretting his decision to come to skool more and more with each passing moment.

"Well, I remember you! Back when I was working at the grade skool! You w—"

At once, Zim cut her off with a burst of hacking, withdrawing into himself as each one wracked his tiny frame. He watched her face become bleary and distorted and listened to her words fade out into a worried hum of sympathy, before squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His head swam with fatigue and vertigo and he barely registered her placing a cool hand on his forehead as he stood, doubled over.

"Oh my!" she remarked. Suddenly, Zim's eyes widened and he straightened up again, blinking away the dizziness he felt. Then with new vigor, he struggled once more against the teacher's grip like a chained animal, eyes fixed on the exit. The last thing he needed was to be under the scrutiny of all these humans.

"This one was caught fighting on skool grounds. He's on his way to the principal's office," the gym teacher huffed, tightening her hold on Zim's upper arm. He continued to pull, despite the bruises that were inevitably forming on his skin from the force.

The nurse glanced at Zim again, then up at the teacher. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean in closer to her colleague and speak in a low, hushed voice. Beyond the sound of his own rapid heartbeat, he could make out the words  _fever_  and  _skool policy_ , followed by angry rebuttals from the gym teacher in a slightly louder whisper.

Zim growled and glared hazily at the floor as they argued.

After a couple of moments, the nurse ceased her attempted reasoning. She stepped back and edged towards her office, obstinately placing both hands on her hips. "I'm calling his parents."

At the definitive nature of this statement, the other teacher shifted irately, unconsciously loosening her grip on Zim's arm. Without a second thought, the little alien immediately took the opportunity to break away and dash out the door, sprinting as fast as his shaky legs could carry him. She instinctively lurched after him, but he was gone in a flash, rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight almost instantly.

"Fine! Then let them know he's suspended as well!"

-x-

Zim meandered up his pathway and trudged through the door, hearing only his own heavy footfalls and the deep, gasping breathes that he continually drew in. The walk home had only exacerbated whatever was wrong with him; at this point, all he could feel was the rawness of his own throat and the dull aching in his lungs from the sheer effort of exerting his energy. That, and his seemingly ever-present anxiety.

Entering his base once again, he was struck once more with the same overwhelming sense of emptiness that he had felt just hours before. It was all-encompassing and the Irken felt his eyes widen, his blood pulse through his veins in deep, sluggish thumps.

He walked through his dim living room and into the kitchen, carefully stepping into the trashcan and lowering himself into his laboratory, desperate to hide away from his own fears.

* * *

Immediately following the final bell at skool, Dib had found himself stomping angrily down the sidewalk, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was at his wit's end. He demanded answers and he made a silent pledge to give the Irken one final chance to explain it to him.

So, under the guise of giving Zim the homework he had missed, Dib allowed his resolve to take over. His booted feet made determined strides, leaving the sound of dull thuds behind him on the concrete as he walked.

His expression was carefully crafted into that of utter staidness, save for the edge of his bottom lip. The area where Zim's fist had connected caused Dib's mouth to pull down at the corner ever so slightly, leaving the area swollen and protruding. For good measure, it was also tinged with a cacophony of angry reds and purples that had appeared in just the few short hours since the incident.

Though he was still riddled with confusion and vehement frustration, a very small but sincere part of Dib was also secretly relieved that Zim had returned. If nothing else, because it meant that the boy didn't have to harbor the inexplicable guilt he had since that fateful night. It had haunted him in its persistence and the way it tangled itself within his heart, mingling with a hateful sorrow that he tried to push back with all his might.

For someone who had devoted his life to stopping, or even killing, the Irken, Dib was driven almost to madness by his own anguish. But now? At this very moment, all he had to do was touch his bruised lip to press those emotions back down. He was back to square one, save for the chunk of his dignity that he felt he had lost to the unwitting alien in just one day.

Dib couldn't tell if he was compelled by morbid curiosity or by genuine concern to discover whatever Zim was hiding. All he could speculate was that he was, in fact, keeping secrets. For the few brief hours he had seen him, the Irken seemed to be a mess, from his rumpled uniform to the frantic, half crazed look on his face as he attacked the boy. Sending Zim home had been the breaking point. Nothing was making sense anymore and it infuriated the young paranormal investigator to no end.

He remained perfectly straight-faced and steadfast as he marched down Zim's walkway, carefully avoiding the gnomes that contributed heavily to his garish, frighteningly decorated front yard. Expertly shimmying into their blind spots, he was able to make it to the porch with only a few minor burns from the lasers.

Straightening up so that he stood a little taller, Dib knocked on the door. He half expected Zim to explode out of his house, ready to finish what he had started on the blacktop, or perhaps blast him into oblivion with some sort of advanced Irken weaponry. But after several seconds of the waiting, the door remained closed and not a sound came from within the living room.

Dib sighed and knocked again, louder this time and more fervently, until his knuckles started to burn from the force he was putting into it. After yet another moment of unresponsiveness, he rang the doorbell.

"Open up, Zim!"

Nothing.

The boy, growing ever more impatient, shifted to his left and peered in through the window. Through a small crack in the Irken's curtains, he could see the dimmed main room. His brow furrowed as he pressed his face against the glass to get a better view. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, taking all into consideration. The darkness and quiet from within gave off the impression that the house was empty. Not even Zim's little robot, who seemed to harbor an inseparable bond with the couch and television set, was in sight.

"Come on Zim," Dib lamented, his volume wavering slightly, "I have your homework."

_At this point, you've missed so much skool, I wonder how you're passing at all_ , he mused to himself as he glanced down at the stack of papers.

When he his last plea got no response still, Dib sighed and sat down on the front patio, facing the street. Setting the mess of homework assignments aside, he stared down the walkway and blankly into the road beyond. His hands shook slightly, both with fresh excitement and undeniable nervousness. That was it. The last straw. Zim's stubbornness had sealed his own fate, for in that moment, Dib decided with utmost certainty to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

Several hours had passed. The bright sky was slowly overpowered by the moon and the stars and rows of streetlamps lit up the cul-de-sac outside of Zim's house. Sense of time had long been lost to the Irken, though. He was hidden in the windowless depths of his laboratory, working on GIR's memory chip as anxiety gnawed at his very bones and enervation blurred his vision.

He still refused to step foot in the charging cell, determined to press on without its aid. Deep down, part of him was worried that it wouldn't make any difference anyhow. And then where would that leave him? He needed a real diagnosis, a real solution. The computer continued to analyze his scans, finding nothing with each diagnostic. He even tried to broaden the search to ailments native to other planets, desperation growing with each passing hour.

Meanwhile, he had taken to distracting himself once more, this time with GIR.

The robot was still sitting on the cold metal table just as inert as he was when Zim set him there. His crosshatched mouth was pulled down in a frown and his eyes stared out at nothing, a dead ghastly gray replacing the typical warm cyan.

Every now and then, the Irken's eyes would wander from his work table and across the room, towards his prone servant. And each time, without fail, his gaze would stick on GIR's face for a moment too long and an involuntary shudder would run down his spine.

After another few moments, he rose wearily from his workstation and headed towards the table. His steps made loud echoes in the empty room.  _Click, clack, click, clack._

He approached the robot and carefully reached forwards, peering into his head cavity to inspect the damage once more.

GIR often hoarded random objects in this compartment. He was like a small child, constantly bringing home undesirable odds and ends to play with later. And like a parent of sorts, Zim had grown accustomed to sitting GIR down each night on the couch to disapprovingly go through his storage areas, emptying out lizards, candy wrappers, etc. After a while, he had ceased his subsequent hectoring on the matter, knowing that GIR would merely forget come the next morning.

Thankful that the robot's hard drive was still intact, albeit a bit damaged, Zim replaced the memory chip in its respective slot and immediately went to work on this next task.

As he worked, the Irken tried to recall the last time he had eaten anything. For days, it seemed, a cold pain had settled in the pit of his belly and just the thought of eating caused his spooch to lurch, threatening to purge its contents. He couldn't tell what was from illness and what was from fear any longer.

He sat on the workbench, wilted over his robot, as the hours ticked on. Eventually, late into the night, exhaustion began to overrule his nerves, and he felt his eyelids grow heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Rapt with fatigue and dizziness from his PAK inefficiency, Zim felt his antennae grow limp and his ruby eyes begin to close against his own will. Gradually, his body coerced him into a deep, decidedly overdue sleep in the middle of his laboratory.

* * *

Dib demanded answers. That much was clear. He desired them with the very fervor one desires oxygen and he refused to let the stubbornness of his enemy hinder him from learning the truth. Something simply did not add up. What had happened that night? It was a pitiful question, one that he was tired of asking himself.

Zipping up his jacket and bursting out into the night, he felt a familiar exhilaration run through his veins. He had never thought he would feel that excitement again, and something about it made his heart stir with a concoction of bittersweet emotions.

If there was one thing Dib knew after years of attempting to infiltrate the base, it was that he could not expect to just waltz right through Zim's front door. Of course, the Irken was dim enough that his gnomes specifically surrounded the path leading to said area and neglected the other accesses to the house, via the front and side yards.

Dib carefully snuck around, pressed against the wooden fence that separated Zim's base from the surrounding apartment complexes. Just as he had observed months earlier in one of his notetaking excursions, a vent cover peeked from the exterior wall on the far end of the house.

The boy glanced around himself briefly, as if afraid he was being watched, before stuffing his hand into the deep pocket of his trench coat. He pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver and immediately set to work on removing it, still unsure of his next move if and when he infiltrated the base.

Within moments, he had freed the panel from the screws that held it in place, revealing a dark chute. Heaven knew where exactly it would lead him, but Dib was not in the least bit deterred as he bent down on his hands and knees and wriggled himself into the vents.

For a time, he crawled forward in the darkness, hearing and seeing nothing but his own heartbeat and vague clouds of breath as it materialized in front of him in the cold. Not long into his claustrophobic escapade, he began to panic, fearful that he would never find an exit, or worse, that Zim would hear his commotion and find him. Dib had been taken prisoner one too many times in his attempts to break into his enemy's secret base…

He glanced briefly at his digital watch, the glow illuminating the metal walls surrounding him as he was informed of the time: 3:42 a.m. He pressed on, scuttling blindly through the vents and turning corners, until, eventually, he could make out a light up ahead.

As he approached the slotted cover that separated him from whatever room he had stumbled upon, Dib paused and pulled out his laptop. Zim's security system was second to none, if only the Irken knew how to utilize it properly. It was easy enough for Dib, after years of observing and attempting to infiltrate, though, to hack into the computer system. Of course, it was sheer luck alone that the Irkens just happened to use the same operating system as him.

However, Dib had never actually made it far enough into his schemes to disable the alarms or scanners that would pick up on his presence. The disgruntled alien had always gotten to him first, aided by his keen senses and perpetual suspicion of the boy's attempts to break in. In fact, part of Dib began to wonder why Zim hadn't noticed him yet. Try as he might, he hadn't exactly been the picture of stealth as he navigated his way through the echoing metal vents.

Successfully disabling the scanners and the computer's vocal interface, Dib finally began to unscrew the next vent cover. Peeling it back, he peered tentatively into the chamber he had found himself in, immediately searching the area for any sign of Zim. This area, however, appeared to be just as empty as the rest of the house.

The first thing he noticed as his eyes skimmed the room was a computer screen, lit up and flashing some sort of message. With more than a little apprehension, Dib gingerly climbed out of the vent and lowered himself to the ground, immediately drawn to the monitor like a moth. Right beside the flashing screen was a huge platform that somewhat resembled an x-ray machine, and adjacent was some other such alien contraption that Dib couldn't place.

Standing in front of the computer, he gawked at the rest of the room, taking it in with unconcealed wonder. While many levels of Zim's base looked almost indistinguishable, this particular area stood out. It seemed to be some alien rendition of an infirmary. Sharp, delicate tools lined the walls and numerous vials dotted the table at the far end. It had an uncanny likeness to a surgical room and the eeriness to match.

He turned his attention back to the screen, at the jumble of Irken characters that continued to flash steadily in angry red text. He pulled out his computer again, effectively translating it into English with a few clicks. Dib smirked gleefully as he did so, satisfied with his increased knowledge on Zim's base after years of floundering. He had finally gotten something of a footing in the constant battle to understand Irken technology.

However, his zeal was dampened when the message on the screen didn't become any clearer even after it had been translated.

_CONTAMINANT DETECTED: TOXIN J-636._

Dib wrinkled his nose and raised one eyebrow in confusion.  _What the hell is toxin J-636?_  He tried to piece this together with his very limited knowledge of the predicament. All he could determine based on his surroundings was that it must be some sort of infection that had been found within Zim.

Tentatively, Dib reached his hand out and lightly grazed the touch screen of the computer with his index finger.

He felt an uneasiness wash over him and found himself glancing every which way again, certain that Zim was just around the corner. After several seconds of silence, however, he quietly returned to his snooping.

Finding a search bar, right above the diagnosis, he slowly typed in  _TOXIN J-636._

Immediately, a page shot up onto the screen, displaying rows upon rows of text written in Irken. Dib paused for a beat, then ordered a translated version. The screen froze for a moment as it deciphered this, then the display promptly flicked to English. Dib adjusted his glasses and read the description the medical database had offered:

_The chemical compounds found within J-636 results in irreversible PAK inefficiency, hence cutting off the host's life support. The resulting cerebral disconnect between the organic brain and PAK leads to inevitable expiration over time._

_One of the most notable features of the toxin is its inability to be recognized by Irken Control Brains and biological scanners after death. Seeing that all naturally deceased Irkens eventually expire from a PAK deficiency, it is nearly impossible to rule the J-636 out as a cause of death. This has led to a universal paranoia among the Irken race, for fear that the virus may make an undetected appearance on Irk._

Suddenly, the young trespasser heard a rustling coming from another recess of the lab. Dib frantically turned around and crossed his arms protectively over his face. He half expected to see the Irken, eyes ablaze with fury, coming towards him with claws bared, demanding to know how he had managed to infiltrate his base. Or perhaps Zim's little robot, a full arsenal of weaponry bursting from within his head at the sight of an intruder.

Instead, nothing happened. Dib felt his heart lurch in his chest as his eyes scanned the area. He sighed after a moment and mopped the sweat from his brow.

His own fear was getting to him, though it was perfectly justified. In even his most carefully constructed plans to sneak into Zim's base and gather data, the paranormal investigator wannabe had never once made it this far. He didn't understand why Zim hadn't detected him yet. Even in the dead of night, the alien was always out tinkering with some invention or in the midst of plotting some scheme.

Dib hesitantly turned his gaze back to the computer and continued to research the virus, this time with a growing dread as he tried to connect the dots. Almost none of it made sense to him, and he found himself clicking on another page that detailed the history of it. Pulling it up, his eyes trailed the rows of sentences that appeared on the screen and his lips quivered as he mouthed them to himself.

_Little is known about the properties of J-636. Engineered by Meekrobian scientists nearly two centuries ago for use in biological warfare, it is the deadliest known toxin to the Irken race. Its existence has led to multiple conflicts and tensions between the two planets, sparking a cold war that has been ongoing for the last one hundred fifty-seven years. The Meekrob have used it as a fear tactic, should Irk break their ties with them and attempt to invade the planet. Multiple rumors have spread on both sides, sparking paranoia regarding both the toxin and a potential invasion. One popular conspiracy theory is that it has managed to fall into Irken hands and is currently being held in a high security biological containment facility, of which only the Almighty Tallest are allowed access._

Dib stopped and allowed himself to process the vast, confusing array of information that had been thrown at him. Part of him was absolutely enamored with the history he was learning about Zim's homeland. Propaganda and wars that humanity was blithely unaware of…perhaps no race, no matter how advanced, was immune to the violent nature that fear and paranoia bring with it.

Another part of him was instantly brought back to that night when he had sent Zim that transmission. That deep sense of fear was overwhelmingly palpable, and he felt dread swell up in his chest at every word he read. Fearful for his enemy? He thought about what the Irken himself had demanded in the midst of their fight the day before.

_"Since when do you care about the life of ZIM?! We hate each other! Remember?"_

Swallowing thickly, Dib scrolled down, glossing over another page that detailed more of the cold war between Irk and Meekrob. Not finding what he was looking for, the boy exited out of it and perused the database further, letting his curiosity run rampant.

Finally, he stumbled upon a document describing an experiment that had taken place on this "Meekrob" planet. Dib noted that the information was gathered in a reconnaissance mission by an "Invader Tenn". He read through it quickly and tried to ignore the persistent shaking of his hands as he scrutinized the top-secret Irken military document.

_In an undisclosed experiment on the planet Meekrob, seven Irken prisoners of war were used as test subjects for the toxin. Each Irken was exposed to varying quantities of the gas to test the effects of it. The month-long experiment concluded that varying quantities could either hasten or prolong the eventual result._

_The first group of three POW died within just ten minutes of exposure, the toxin having taken effect almost instantly._

_The other group received a diluted form of the gas. These Irkens suffered effects similar to a prolonged PAK deactivation. For approximately three weeks, their biological shells weakened until they suffered eventual paralysis. Eventually, two of the four test subjects slipped into comas before finally succumbing to the lack of life support._

_The remaining two died a week before, of typically curable ailments that were unrelated to the experiment. It could also be determined, as a result, that since it manifests itself within the Irken's biological shell, it will also weaken the body and drastically compromise the immune system._

The boy stepped back for a moment and tried to draw conclusions from this data. One of the few things that became clear was that, somehow Zim had been infected with this toxin, and was now suffering the effects. Dib tried to piece bits of information together like a puzzle, connecting it back to the conspiracy he had listened in on. He began to wonder if there was more on that recording that he hadn't heard.

Dib had a basic understanding of the importance of an Irken PAK and of the symbiosis that existed between it and the actual body. According to what he was reading, the toxin was causing this connection to falter, instigating a deterioration of Zim's biological shell. In layman's terms, the Irken was deactivating really, really slowly.

He glanced back at the last page desolately, trying to digest it all.

_There. You have your information…isn't that all you wanted? Now leave!_  He knew the egotistical little pest was alive, and at least part of what was wrong with him. Somehow, it didn't settle him in the least.

_But he could be dying right now…_

They boy scowled in irritation as his headache returned once again with new vigor.

_This isn't your concern. Why do you care? Is it really about him? Or is it about you? A dependence on his existence? An escape? Pure selfishness! Walk away. Now._

Dib stood dumbly, staring in front of him as his head and heart throbbed painfully. His hand trembled as he raised it towards the screen once again, half lost in his stupor. Slowly, he typed another word into the search bar:

_DEFECTIVE._


	9. Of Defective Zim and Dire Straits

**Chapter 9: Of Defective Zim and Dire Straits**

The Tallest sat back in their chairs, staring blankly at the large computer screen aboard the massive in stoic silence. They had long since returned to their own leisurely occupation of monitoring the progress of Operation Impending Doom II immediately following the Progress Convention. As it was, though, the goings had grown increasingly stagnant in recent time. It gave them much time alone with each other, their snacks, and their thoughts.

Tallest Red shoved a handful of chips in his mouth and glanced around himself at the gargantuan control room. The usual array of technicians and navigators were deep within their respective tasks, headsets in place and tuning out nearly everything around them.

Beside him was his cohort, slurping loudly on a soda and stuffing his face with their ever-bountiful supply of foodstuffs straight from the finest vendors on Irk. Everything was reasonably quiet and not unlike it had always been. And yet, a growing uneasiness was welling within Red.

"It was a mistake," he said finally, in a barely audible yet obstinately firm tone, breaking the silence.

Purple paused mid-chew and turned to him. His movements gave the indication of insouciance, but there was just a hint of apprehension as he glanced over at his co-ruler. "What was a mistake? The chips? Yeah, we should've gotten the cheese flavored—"

"No!" Red said a little louder, "I mean we never should have used the toxin to get rid of Zim."

He gazed blankly back at him, wordlessly urging him to elaborate.

"Imagine the consequences if it ever got out! If it got back to the rest of the Irken population, or worse, the Control Brains that we were in possession of it!"

Purple shifted a bit where he was sitting. His eyes, perpetually half-lidded in conceited assuredness, glanced upwards nonchalantly. "What do you mean? If they knew we were in the middle of a successful invasion of Meekrob  _and_  that we'd retrieved that stupid toxin, they would probably hail us as the greatest Irkens to ever live."

"Not if they knew we used it to try and kill one of our own kind."

"Nobody's going to find out. Besides, no one cares about Zim. I doubt anyone even remembers him anyway…except us. He makes sure of that." Purple glanced at the enormous computer monitor, which Zim had frequently utilized over the years to send out updates on his "mission". It had been a discerning amount of time since they had last heard from him.

"That's not the point. The toxin can't be identified by the Control Brains after death."

"So? That was the whole purpose of using it. What  _is_  your point?"

"It  _can_  be identified  _before_  death. And that runt is out there, walking around with it in his system. Imagine what would happen if he were to be examined by a medic, or even if he received a biological scan! That information would go right back out to the Control Brains. And then what? We'd be doomed!" Red's voice, carefully leveled to avoid eavesdropping from their technician team, began to waver in volume.

At this, Purple set down his bag of chips and turned his body so that he was facing his counterpart head-on. "That won't happen, right? That's why we sent that weird-looking soldier…uh…Lorp."

"Larb."

"Yeah, him. He conquered Vort, surely he can take care of Zim before it becomes an issue."

Purple seemed entirely too calm about the matter. Between the two of them, he had always been the more level-headed one, while Red tended to be more calculating in his thoughts and actions.

He was still unconvinced, having suffered one too many failed attempts at getting rid of Zim and the pang of dread in his squeedlyspooch was growing increasingly hard to ignore. Of course, it had backfired! Just like everything else.

"He better," Red muttered bitterly, turning away from his compeer and putting an end to the unpleasant conversation.

-x-

The truth was, both had gotten too hasty in their combined judgement, starting shortly before the date of the annual Progress Convention. The pair of rulers had been in this exact room months before, where they spent most of their time aboard the Massive.

They had debated even holding the event, given that Operation Impending Doom II appeared to be coming to a crawling, albeit foreseeable close. Most of the Invaders had already conquered their planets, proudly fired the first shot in the Organic Sweep, and had subsequently brought forth further prosperity to the Irken race. Only a few remained, and those who did had been assigned riskier missions, having been placed among highly intelligent and potentially threatening lifeforms.

One of these soldiers was Invader Tenn, who had been assigned Meekrob. She had been known among her squadron to possess both stealth and a keen intellect in each simulation they threw at her during basic training. She was highly skilled as an Invader and had the tenacity to boot. Having been in the midst of a cold war with Meekrob, it made sense to assign one of their most proficient soldiers with this mission, in the hopes that she would deliver. And deliver she did.

Months ago, she sent out a transmission to the Massive. Upon receiving connection with them, she boastfully described her efforts, having done extensive reconnaissance work on both the toxin and top-secret Meekrobian experiments as part of her research on the indigenous life.

It was during this exchange that they had become both intrigued and enamored by its omnipotence. And as soon as she, days later, had transported a pilfered canister of it as an offering, Red in particular had been determined to use this absolute power on none other than Irk's greatest disgrace.

Both failed to see its riskiness through their own pride, despite its glaring overtness. The toxin held a great power of insecurity for Irk's people and, now, it was in the hands of their leaders.

Was it desperation to be rid of Zim for good? An urge to take drastic measures after listening to years of his pathetic schemes and begrudgingly sending him absurd amounts of monies for snacks and lab equipment? It had gotten old quite quickly.

Even if they had confronted him on the validity of his mission, they both doubted he would be so quick to give up, or to even believe them. Zim only listened to what he wanted to hear. Killing him off for good seemed to be their only option, justified by his obvious status as a defective and refusal to accept his banishment.

At the time, their plan seemed foolproof. As it was, a majority of the Invaders had already completed their missions and had been awaiting orders for new assignments. And assign them they did, under the table. Surely their best and brightest soldiers, with nothing better to do, could take care of Zim in a mere night.

And yet, all was far from over.

* * *

Hovering over the monitor, Dib shifted from leg to leg rhythmically, caught in something of a daze as he waited for the results of his latest search.

Out of all the things both dreadful and shocking he had heard that night on the recording, the one Dib remembered most clearly was that word. Defective. And they spoke it so scornfully, refusing to so much as address Zim by name. Only that belittling title.

The computer lagged for a moment as it processed the new request. Then, before Dib's very eyes, thousands of pages shot up. Medical records, criminal records, information sent forth to these "Control Brains". The word was tossed around so casually, included in just about every recorded Irken misdemeanor. He couldn't even begin to decipher it all.

With sudden and inexplicable reluctance, he clicked the first one that appeared to give a bona fide medical explanation and began to read.

_Any Irken who receives a faulty ID PAK is considered to be defective. These individuals are often emotionally and physically compromised, making them notoriously unpredictable and, therefore, a danger to themselves and others. Deviation from their encoded tasks and military orders are often a primary indication of this. Those who are defective have no place within Irken society and pose a threat to the Empire as a whole._

_While these signs can become increasingly apparent during early adolescence, an official diagnosis can only be made by Irken Control Brains in an Existence Evaluation. The verdict during this trial determines an Irken's future serving the Empire. Those who are found to be defective are immediately stripped of their PAK and deactivated. Infected PAKs are disposed of, along with the information downloaded during the course of the defective's life. These ID PAKs are not to be added to the collective of Irken knowledge, therefore preventing contamination of newborn smeets and lowering the risk of any new generations becoming afflicted._

Dib stopped reading. Despite his admitted ignorance to a majority of the information he had stumbled on, laid open like a book in the deepest sector of Zim's base, he could understand enough to take pause for thought.

_If this is true for Zim…and he isn't an Invader at all…then he must just be a joke to his own race. A deluded pariah, unaware of his own exile._

Dib pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose in frustration. He had known this! Known it ever since he had listened in on that conspiracy over a week ago! But…seeing on a screen filled with the whole of Irken medical knowledge solidified it. Made it a little more cut-and-dry.

His heart hitched a bit in his chest as he stepped away from the computer slowly. Dib felt utterly sick to his very core reading it.

_Why_ , exactly, he didn't quite know. Was is dejection from his time wasted hunting the Irken, only for it to be a useless endeavor? For years, he had been convinced that one day the tiny alien would arise with the entire damn armada at his beckon call, hellbent on destroying his home.

Or was he unsettled because "Defective Zim" was the only one who ever took him seriously? He taken him seriously in return. With every waking moment, the veil seemed to lift over Dib's eyes, revealing not a pair of highly skilled mortal enemies, but, rather, two paranoid morons constantly at each other's throats. If all that he had read were true, then he was as much of a joke as his Irken rival. It was more of a blow to his own ego than anything.

Or…or was it something else entirely? Despite what he wanted to believe, deep down, he felt that it may be something that didn't concern Dib's pride or the Earth in the very least.

Empathy perhaps? Combined with an unfathomable worry for his nemesis? If the straits hadn't been so dire, Dib might have laughed at that notion. Instead, he just continued to step away from the computer, hugging his middle tightly with both arms. In his blind persistence, he had opened the Pandora's box of Zim's secrets and, in that moment, decided he had had enough.

The boy looked around, almost pleading for the Irken to make an appearance, to drive him from this hellhole he had infringed upon.

Instead, everything was dead silent. From his spot deep within the bowels of Zim's base, Dib could feel it pressing down on him with a disconcerting heaviness. It was enough to make anyone go mad with panic, isolated and alone in such a small, confined space.

As he rose from the Irken's chair, he eyed the elevator with a smidgen of apprehension. He was slowly beginning to become more and more convinced that Zim may not be in the base at all. Not to mention, his systems were deactivated…

Dib let his arms drop to his sides, trying to relish in the position he was currently in, despite his debilitating unease. He would never get another chance like this to explore the rest of the base. That's what the little voice inside his head told him, at least.

Part of Dib wanted to run away and never come back. And yet…in spite of himself, the vaguest trace of a smirk flitted across his face as he found himself walking towards the conduit.

He had to duck slightly in the doorway, as it was more accustomed for someone Zim's height. The inside of it offered a decent scope of modern Irken technology. Translucent pink glass allowed Dib a view of the various cords and electrical fixtures that adorned Zim's base and kept his endless labyrinth of rooms and laboratories functioning.

The elevator eventually came to a smooth halt and Dib paused, slightly taken aback. Where exactly was he? Very tentatively, he poked the area above his head, where a sliver of light was peeking through. The flap immediately opened, revealing Dib to be within Zim's recycling bin. The disguised elevator was just another example of the Irken's self-proclaimed ingeniousness.

Dib swung one leg over the side of it and heaved his body up and out of the bin. Like the rest of the base, the upper level was eerily quiet, save for the low cadence of whirring technology. Even the enormous television screen, normally blaring some mind-numbing drivel, was turned off. Again, neither residents of the bizarre little house appeared to be anywhere in sight.

Treading lithely on the checkered linoleum floor, Dib exited the kitchen and glanced around. The main level of the house was quite simple in design, seemingly consisting of only those two rooms. He had been here before and it was truly the only part of the base he was reasonably familiar with.

However, as the boy took in the sight, free of any fear that Zim might catch him, he noticed another little hallway just off the kitchen, tucked nearly out of sight.

Dib approached it warily. It didn't extend very far and ended at a curved, metallic door with a touch-screen panel on one side. He tapped at the screen a few times, but the only response he received back were a few bolded words in Irken jargon and some whirring from behind the closed door. After a moment, though, the door parted down the middle, revealing a different elevator system.

Curiosity overshadowed his guardedness, and Dib stepped onto the platform. Almost immediately, he was transported upward without so much as a button-press or verbal command. The door peeled open again after several seconds, revealing a large, dark room filled with an overabundance of cords, rafters, and…Zim's Voot Runner.

Dib, immediately drawn to it, stepped off the elevator and began wandering down the catwalk towards it.  _I must be up in his attic,_  he thought to himself as he approached the idle ship.

Peering into the darkened cockpit, he noted the similarities between it and Tak's ship. Both were small, meant for one or two passengers, and contained a large control panel with a variety of intricate buttons and levers.

As the boy examined it, he instantly noticed a few things amiss. First of all, the back of the large pilot's chair was almost completely decimated, as if it had been melted down with hot lava. Dib shifted to the side and squinted in the dim light, trying to get a closer look. Above the control panel was a tiny hatch, left ajar and with the bottom half of an oxygen mask peeping out. The area around the opening was riddled with claw marks and dried blood, smeared across it in a deep brownish-green. It looked as if he had been in a struggle, desperate to get to it.

_What the fuck had happened to him?_

The scene was unsettling, to say the least, and Dib found himself beginning to feel sick to his stomach again.

He wandered around on the catwalk for a few moments before entering the elevator again, having not found much more of interest in Zim's launch hangar. This time, he fiddled with the touch screen, trying to make the elevator go down again. The doors closed after a beat, and he felt himself being pulled in the desired direction. However, after several seconds of waiting, he was mildly surprised to still feel it continuing to move downwards instead of back to the main level.

Eventually, the dull, metallic interior walls disappeared as the platform descended into the subterranean level of the base again, revealing the same translucent pink glass as in the other conduit.

Like a small child, Dib pressed his hands to the glass and examined each floor he passed. He could see some sort of storage area, littered with half-completed contraptions and discarded blueprints.

Another level below that, and he passed through the holo-chamber he had been in after he threw that muffin at Zim's head three years ago.

Finally, he reached the Irken's main laboratory, complete with the enormous computer monitor that accompanied it. Slamming his hand onto the panel, Dib tried to stop the elevator at this floor. He knew this area was important, and that Zim spent more time here than anywhere else. It was here where he researched his invasion tactics, called his leaders, and designed experiments. Dib had only seen the room a handful of times and the ardent need to investigate it beckoned to him.

As he took his first step off the platform, though, Dib felt an odd electricity pass through the air and that old jumpiness he had experienced down in the med bay began to rush back to him. At once, he had a palpable feeling that he was not alone.

Flicking his eyes back and forth, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. He tried to cast it off as nervousness at being in such an important level in the Irken's base. The room was vast and dimly lit, providing no shortage of deep, looming shadows and hidden crevices.

However, when his gaze spread to the far corner of the room, he suddenly felt his breath hitch in his throat, manifesting itself in a peculiar combination of a shocked gasp and startled yelp. Dib staggered backwards in alarm, as his eyes touched down on something that shook him to his very core.

A small, inert figure was lying face down at long metal table littered with various tools and apparatuses. Two long antennae, usually as taught as wires, were draped like discarded thread over Zim's head and his typically green skin now looked washed out and had taken on a sickly-looking yellowish tinge. A weak, barely audible whistle of breath in his throat in the quiet room was the sole indication that he was, indeed, alive. In front of him was the empty, dead shell of his little robot.

Dib's brows scrunched above his wide, bewildered eyes.

Unconsciously, he felt himself creep nearer to the alien, until he was standing mere inches away from him. Up close, Zim looked far worse than when the two were at school only a day earlier. His uniform was just as unkempt as it had been before and appeared to be smothering him in its heavy material, leaving a sheen of sweat over his half-hidden face.

Dib had no idea Irkens slept. The alien was full of flimsy lies and false confidence, his pathetic disguise being a physical embodiment of who he was inside. He had never shown anything but haughtiness and munificent energy. And yet, in that moment, he was more exposed than the young paranormal enthusiast had ever seen him. Cold adrenaline pulsed through his body at the sight of his enemy.

_Seriously, what the hell happened?_  Dib heard himself thinking for the billionth time, turning his gaze to the usually jubilant little robot lying motionless on the table in front of his unconscious master.

Without thinking, he reached forwards towards the Irken, as if to confirm he was even real. The feeling was likened to walking in on a wild animal in the midst of slumber. Dib was filled with both fear and insatiable curiosity. However, as he ogled at the sight before him, Zim's left antenna began to twitch slightly and the little alien stirred a bit before sluggishly opening one eye. Dib froze where he was standing, hand still partially extended outwards. He considered fleeing, but instead watched in rapt and dumbstruck paralysis while the alien gradually began to recognize the familiar visage of his human nemesis.

Then, at once, both fuchsia eyes flung open and his feelers, previously limp, stood straight up in terror. Zim let out a raspy, almost animalistic shriek and bolted upright at the table, tipping over the stool he had been sitting on. Then, in a panicked escape attempt, he fought to scramble over some mechanical lab equipment that had been on the ground beside him, quickly beginning to hyperventilate as he did so. He stumbled and tripped over it in his combined cognitive fogginess and desperate haste.

Dib, still rendered nearly catatonic in his astonishment, suddenly jolted back as Zim's PAK legs abruptly exploded out of his back and clung to the tubes above him on the ceiling. Retreating to the corner of his lab, he eyed the boy in fear before jerkily lowering himself to the ground.

Dib staggered backwards in hasty, erratic motions, stricken by the sudden outburst. He continued to back away in apprehension, his eyes pinned on the alien with equal intensity.

"Zim, I—"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" His labored breathing picked up and he started to shake. The mechanical limbs swayed unsteadily, rocking his shivering little body along with them.

Dib merely watched from the other end of the lab in stunned silence. Finally, Zim broke out in a coughing fit and his extended appendages collapsed from under him. The little Irken crashed unceremoniously to the floor, amidst a tumbling cluster of limp PAK legs.

The boy cautiously took a step towards Zim, caught in a daze and ignoring the Irken's bared teeth and deep, guttural snarls. Zim tried to get to his feet, but gravity seemed to elude him. At the same time, he was desperately trying to retract the limbs into his PAK, but they remained motionless on the floor, sprawled behind him in a limp heap.

At that moment, the boy realized that he would never get another chance to expose Zim. In ill health and rendered defenseless, it was the moment he had dreamed of relentlessly since the day he had met the narcissistic alien. He reached out again towards Zim, as if to make an attempt to pick him up.

Letting out a high squeal, the Irken clambered unsteadily to his feet and scrambled away from him, beelining for the elevator in a bid to escape up to the house. Dib, somewhat reprieved of his stupor, was in hot pursuit, clearing the distance of the little space easily.

In a dangerously unsteady endeavor, Zim tried to push his weakened body forward at a breakneck pace, but collapsed about halfway across his lab, falling roughly onto his PAK instead. The metallic clang of the contraption reverberated in harmony with the dull smack of his head against the rough floor.

For a moment, he lay still. His aching head swam with terror and new, overpowering exhaustion, as if he were fading in and out of reality. Then, Dib's face appeared overhead, and he felt the child crudely dragging him away by one of his exposed PAK legs.

"NOOO! NO! NOOO!" he screeched, jerked further awake in an instant despite the dull, throbbing pain in his head. Zim kicked and thrashed about as he was dragged across his cold floor. He felt a carousel of emotions begin to flood his sickly, feverish body as he processed his situation.

He would never allow himself to stoop so low; never tolerate his steadfast will to bend without a fight. But now, he was too weak and sick. His other three spider legs flared out behind him across the floor, uselessly tangled together and making scratchy, metallic noises as they, too, were dragged off.

Surely the Dib was off to carry out any plethora of his many vows. Whether to dissect him, interrogate him about the Irken race, or expose him to any number of filthy humans, Zim did not know. Much like his schemes regarding the downfall of planet Earth, Dib's own intentions were never entirely clear.

The boy continued to pull him across the floor, pausing slightly when the little Elite ceased his screaming in exchange for a pitiful mewling. Gradually, his struggling subsided and the alien began to shake violently, caught in a sorry state of crippling fear and illness. Zim shuddered, whining and squeezing his eyes shut in shame. What a dishonorable way to die, sniveling like a smeet at the hands of the enemy…

"Please, Dib…" he begged at last. The boy's heavy boots stopped staunchly midstride. What felt like an eternity passed in complete and utter silence, save for the terrified sobs that escaped from Zim's lips.

Then, silently, Dib knelt down beside him, wearing an odd expression on his face that resembled pained confliction. He said something in a soft, yet stern voice, but Zim couldn't hear him beyond the thrashing of his own heart in his little ribcage.

He felt lightheaded and began to see black spots cloud his already warbled vision. The stress had finally taken its toll on him. Overworked and utterly distraught, his body began to heave and convulse. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the look of repugnance on Dib's face as he unleashed a torrent of vomit over his black trench coat.

* * *

Darkness closed in on Zim. The fragment of his mind that hadn't yet disassociated itself from the rest of the world screamed out from beyond, trying desperately to alert him of the danger. Only briefly did he feel this before slipping into a state of utter nothingness.

It was then that his unconscious mind picked up where his conscious one left off. His choppy, horrid dreams consisted of nothing but flashes of scalpels and other such instruments, organs that should never see the light of day, and Dib's sadistic face as he chopped the alien into bits.

Zim awoke in horror, expecting to find himself on an autopsy table. Taking in sharp, uneven little breaths, he flung his eyes open and glanced around himself. The room indolently sharpened into focus, revealing it to be his own living room. Zim, himself, was wrapped in clean blankets and propped up on the large, pink loveseat. Feeling his heartbeat slow slightly at the warm familiarity, he felt the ubiquitous fatigue closing in on him once again. He began to wonder if he had dreamed the entire debacle.

And yet…something in the ambiance of the room seemed off. Zim huddled in his blankets and slowly felt his senses coming back to him, as muted as they were. The first thing he heard was the clinking plates and mugs from his kitchen, but he couldn't discern exactly what was happening.

Then, with utmost caution and timidity, a tall, lanky figure appeared from Zim's kitchen and the Irken felt his heartbeat quicken. His antennae stood straight up in defense as Dib sat down beside him and silently handed him a cup of cold water, condensation already beginning to form on the outside of the glass. Zim looked at it distastefully, making no move to take it from him.

After a moment, Dib's muscles twitched and he awkwardly set it carefully on the floor beside him. As he did so, Zim glanced at the gangly teenager suspiciously, but the boy looked more frustrated than maniacal. He was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and his jacket was absent, revealing his scrawny, pale arms.

Something about this sight prompted Zim to examine his own surroundings further, and he was both shocked and disturbed to find he was no longer wearing his tunic. His black leggings remained as he left them, but from the waist up, he was dressed in only the mauve undershirt that he typically wore beneath his uniform. The Irken peered into the kitchen and caught sight of these items. They were balled up in the corner, coated in a vile, puce colored substance. He winced and pulled his antennae back, so that they were pinned flat against his skull in hostility.

With deep revulsion, he began to realize that the Dib, having somehow infiltrated his base while he had been sleeping, had also done this. He had dragged him from his very own lab and placed him here,  _undressed_  him, tampered with God knows what, and was now sitting expectantly beside him with that stupid,  _stupid_  look on his face.

Instead of relief, or even inquisitiveness as to why Dib didn't just steal him away to perform all his experiments, Zim only felt bubbling ire. The mere thought of it all made him glare balefully at the human.

Dib frowned and averted his own eyes, magnetized against his glasses.

"What happened Zim?" he asked at last. Never before had the boy's voice sounded so somber and rough. In that moment, he sounded more like grown man than a young child. His tone was firm and it was evident that Dib was not merely asking Zim what had happened; he was demanding he tell him.

Instead of answering, though, the sickly little alien just continued to glower at him.

"Get out of my base," he growled, his already half-lidded eyes narrowing even further. The two stared at each other for a moment, then Zim started to break into another violent coughing fit. His chest rose awkwardly with jagged, troubled breathes. He gulped down air between each lapse of horrid coughing and his eyes began to water again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it suddenly dawned on him that his enemy had seen him cry mere moments before. The thought filled him with fresh anger.

Dib silently leaned over and retrieved the cup that he had set on the floor.

"Drink this, Zim. It won't hurt you, I promise."

Given this ominous statement, Zim glared at the glass in the boy's outstretched hand in disgust. He hissed and swiped feebly at it. "Lies! Do you take me for a fool, human? I can't drink  _that_!"

Dib looked down at it, his swollen lip tugging down further in a deep frown. His brow furrowed in increasing irritation. "Geez, get over yourself, Zim! I understand enough about your race at this point to know what you can and can't do! I boiled it beforehand. There are no pollutants in it."

Zim stammered for a moment. "T-then you've poisoned it! I-I know you have!" He closed his eyes and rasped out another deluge of pained coughing. "And I already warned you; get out!  _Now_!"

Dib lowered his eyes to the floor for a moment, exasperated. Then, he lifted his head and a familiar expression graced his countenance; one Zim had seen many a time when the boy was ensnared in one of his traps or injured in their countless battles. His amber eyes narrowed and his brows arched over them in an expression of utter helplessness, giving him the look of a young, fearful child.

It used to fill Zim with exhilaration when Dib would pull that expression; it meant that he was out of options. These days, though, that small and scared look seemed to appear for no reason at all. It looked odd when it was paired with Dib's newfound height and maturity.

For only a brief moment, he held it. Then, to Zim's astonishment, the boy complied. Rising up on his two long legs, he strode stiffly towards the door. Dib swallowed and pursed his lips slightly. A single hand rose to push his glasses further up his nose.

The tiny voice inside his head beckoned to him once again, arising for the first time since he had been down in Zim's medical bay. It begged for release from the confliction, the fear, and the God forsaken  _pity_  he felt for the alien.

_Walk away. Now._  His eyes became glazed and his movements were oddly mechanical. Without looking back, Dib promptly opened the door and departed, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

_This isn't your concern…_


	10. Of One-Way Conversations and the Pinnacle of Rock Bottom

Zim sat laden in his mass of blankets for an untold amount of time after watching the door slam behind Dib, his eyes wide and blank with shock. Moments slipped away from him as his heart thrashed against his chest and his bare feet curled beneath the covers. A patch of sunshine gleamed lazily on the floor before him from the window, and the living room dimmed and brightened continuously as clouds drifted overhead, repeatedly passing over the bright rays outside.

Finally, Zim blinked and looked around. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? The blood pounded through his head as he searched the area for anything amiss. Any threats that he could add to his growing list.

Nothing in the base had been disturbed, at least that he could see. He stretched his neck a bit and meekly peered out the window, but there was no sign of the police or FBI. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. He watched the ugly neighbors from next door walk by outside, chatting in muted voices as they ambled up the sidewalk.

The only sign that Dib had even set foot in the base was the glass of water at the Irken's feet and the balled-up clothing in the kitchen, covered in Zim's sweat and vomit. His tunic, gloves, and boots were wrapped with Dib's trench coat, abandoned by the boy in his wake.

"C-computer," he squeaked finally, his voice hardly audible.

No response arose, and he felt a jolt of adrenaline pass through him. He was surrounded only by the unnerving stillness of his base in the wake of his command. The whirring of the cords and cables overhead were the only noise in the house and even they had taken on a somewhat disturbing cadence.

"Computer?" he asked again, a little louder this time.

Once more, all he received was jarring silence. The computer was offline, giving him absolutely no insight into his base's operations. As this dawned on Zim, he started to tremble and cower into his blankets.

The Dib! He did this! Who knew what else had he meddled with? The tiny Irken began to hyperventilate again. His head throbbed and his spooch continued to ache and churn mercilessly. Ragged breaths turned to desperate pants as he heaved himself from the couch and staggered unsteadily into the kitchen. He needed to get to the lab; needed to know if the human nuisance had done anything that could potentially compromise the mission.

On his way, though, he felt a tug of resistance from his back. Turning his head slightly, Zim gasped as he saw all four of his exposed PAK legs piled behind him on the couch, limp and tangled together at their joints. He merely stared at them for several seconds, mouth agape. Then, dropping to his knees, he held one in his gloveless hands, quivering and whimpering softly.

Knowing what would happen, but still attempting anyway, he tried to will them back into his PAK. A weak whirring reverberated in his antennae from behind him as the life-sustaining device on his back tried in vain to comply. Zim swallowed thickly, holding back hot bile as it rose in the back of his throat.

Manually pushing his communicator back into his PAK was one thing, but the metallic appendages were an entirely different predicament. Extending over ten feet in the air when fully exposed, they were long and intricate in design, requiring elaborate folding and placement in their designated compartment. The PAK was designed to do this automatically. Trying to fix them manually may as well be likened to trying to fix a hopelessly mangled cassette tape.

Dolefully releasing his hold on the single mechanical limb, Zim scooped the entire snarled mess into his shaking claws with a desolate air as he heaved himself to his feet again and stumbled towards the toilet. Once in, Zim hugged the lot close to his chest and stared vacantly ahead of himself as he was lowered down into his lab.

The small Elite was rendered nearly catatonic from his own lack of control. He felt weak and feverish, beads of sweat beginning to form on his pale skin and run down his temples. To his dismay, after a mere few seconds, he had to sit down inside the elevator, fearful that his own legs would give out beneath him.

He was an Invader. More than that, even, he was the one and only  _Zim_. Top of his squadron in training, the best of the best in each simulation, and a true force to be reckoned with.

But now, so much was going on, schemes he was unaware of; plots that even his worst enemy, the filthy Dib creature, was apparently in on. All he knew for certain now was that he was in a state of panic, terrified that the mysterious masked Irken would come to finish him off if Dib didn't first. More than that, he was petrified that he would languish before either could do so.

So, in the depths of his base, he allowed his denial to crack along the surface, if just a hairline-fracture in his pride. Zim was frightened. So very frightened. Dropping the bundle of PAK legs, the tiny Elite pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins. He peered through the translucent pink glass in a daze, watching as wires and cords passed him by while the conduit delivered him down to the lower levels of his base.

Even once it stopped, Zim didn't budge, preferring to stay curled into a tight fetal position, squeezing his deep, maroon eyes shut as if he could block out the entire world.

After a couple moments spent taking deep breaths in an attempt to subdue his stress-induced trembling, the sickly Irken slowly opened them and stared blankly ahead at his lab.

He totteringly rose to his feet and made his way to the chair that faced the oversized monitor, letting the useless PAK legs trail behind him like the train of a lavish wedding gown. Collapsing into his seat, Zim stared at the screen through bleary eyes and tried to navigate his way through the computer's settings. Before he could do anything else, be it more scans in the medical bay or repairs on GIR, he needed to bring the vocal interface back online.

As he had suspected, it had been overridden by an outside force. Once again, the very thought of Dib infiltrating his base, his only pocket of security in the entire galaxy, caused Zim's breathing to hitch compulsorily as he reinstated the computer's former operative functions.

Finally, clearing his throat, he spoke into the void once more. "Computer."

Clear as day, it responded, giving Zim just an inkling of his seemingly lost grip on familiarity. It was a voice to speak to, whether it was sentient or not.

Zim paused for a moment, bringing a hand to his throat, before stating his first of many orders.

"Scan the entire b-base and surrounding areas. R-report any—" He stopped to breathe, trying to hold back another fit of hacking. "—any security breaches."

The computer was silent for several seconds. Finally, the deep voice returned.  _"Foreign clothing item located in the top level. Traces of human fingerprints matching DNA of Dib Membrane identified throughout the base."_

Just as he had suspected. Curling his body tightly into the chair, Zim's antennae dipped over his head and he closed his eyes.

Without opening them again, he spoke. "What is the status on GIR?" He couldn't remember how far along he had gotten in his repairs before this new debacle had transpired. More than ever before, he needed a distraction. Some sense of control.

_"SIR unit is now fully functional and only requires rebooting. Enable remotely?"_

"Proceed." Zim glanced across the room at the little robot. He was still lying across the table, completely untouched and peacefully still.

Shakily climbing out of his chair and approaching his servant, the Irken gazed down at him somberly. His eyes stuck on the blank, hollow gaze that haunted the robot's countenance. More than that, it had haunted Zim's very psyche since the incident with the rogue Irken had occurred.

After a moment, a flicker of light danced across GIR's eyes, and then, at once, they lit up to their usual, warm cyan. The little robot sat up, eyes searching the room until they eventually locked onto Zim with utmost attention. He remained speechless, simply gazing at his master with a somewhat mystified expression.

"GIR?"

The robot continued to stare, the newly-lit parts of his body glowing softly in the dark of the lab.

"GIR, I order you to respond to your master!" Zim rasped impatiently. His typically boisterous voice was scarcely audible, though he strained his airways with the sheer force and irritation the words carried.

Finally, GIR spoke. "Y-you're not Master…"

An odd expression crossed Zim's face, some strange glint of confusion and unease, mingled with slight annoyance. "D-did that accident scramble your h-hard drive? Of course I am."

Again, his tone, meant to sound self-assured, had been reduced to nothing more than a hoarse croak and he broke into spluttering coughs almost immediately after speaking, leaning on the side of the worktable for support.

GIR only watched coyly as the Irken before him panted and choked miserably. He was wearing nothing but his pants and long-sleeved pink undershirt. The way he carried himself, too, typically so full of blustering pride and militaristic rigidness, was shrouded entirely by weakness and shivers.

The Elite could feel his airways closing up and dark spots begin to fog his vision as it continued on. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the fit to wrack his tiny body, turning his attention away from his servant and focusing solely on his desperate fight for oxygen.

It was just as well, for the robot was slowly beginning to withdraw from him in innocent confusion and unconcealed fear. His eyes never left Zim, gawking at him with deep intensity while he tried to understand the situation with his crudely constructed sense of logic.

Zim coughed and coughed, swallowing great gulps of air with each tiny break between fits. Somewhere in the back of his cloudy mind, he could hear tiny, metallic footsteps fading away to another level of his house and when he opened his eyes moments later, he realized that GIR had departed. Once more, he was alone.

The Irken opened his mouth to yell GIR's name, but at that moment, the fits began again with new vigor. He bent over, holding his knees and feeling the ache in his chest flare up with each hack. Eventually, they dissolved into merciless gagging and his eyes went wide as he swallowed carefully and deliberately, trying to hold back vomit. He had nothing in his belly except acid, and yet it tried repeatedly to force its way out, brought on by dizziness and stress.

He needed to get to the medical bay. Now. Maybe the computer had discovered something new, something that could help him. Either way, he could wait no longer. Each passing day was drastically worse than the last and his vigor had been steadily slipping from him until he was no more than a shell of his former self.

Walking slowly to the same elevator that GIR had vanished into just seconds before, Zim began speaking to his computer again.

"Computer. T-take me to th…" He took a breath and leaned against the wall of the conduit, begrudgingly pulling in his limp PAK legs. "—the medical bay."

After a beat, the elevator began to move and Zim continued to speak. "W-what did the Dib do? Did he plant m-monitoring devices again? Or…or set traps?" The Irken began to let his mind run wild and had to force himself to stop and take deep breaths.

_"Scan detected no further impairment to the base. All he did was disable the voice interface and security system."_  The computer said the last part in a tone quite unusual for an insentient piece of machinery, as if trying to get Zim to relax.

The Irken's shoulders slackened slightly at this information as a faint inkling of relief hit him. Then, he glanced down at his rumpled undershirt.

"C-computer. Clean my uniform at once."

The computer's voice came back overhead almost immediately following these orders.  _"And the trench coat?"_

"I-incinerate it."

The conduit came to a smooth stop and Zim exited and headed directly towards the platform. But before he could make any further orders, he heard the elevator's gears crank again and then a clanging of metallic feet as they scurried across the floor.

Slowly, Zim turned around. Bringing one hand to his mouth, he tried the quell yet another impending bout of coughing.

There in the shadows stood GIR, holding something in both his little hands. He walked over to the Irken, who was taking deep, weary breaths.

"You aren't Master," he said again, simply.

Between his wheezing, Zim growled softly. "Y-yes, I  _am_."

GIR looked from Zim to the object in his hands and back again.

"Master looks like this," he said finally, holding it up and offering it to the little alien.

It took Zim a moment to recognize what it was. There, before him, was the picture of him and Gir in their disguises standing stoically before a heart backdrop. It had been used as a prop long ago, meant to emulate a "normal human practice of sentimentality".

Zim snatched the photo frame away from the robot. "Have you gone mad? That  _is_  me."

But he self-consciously touched his face and could almost feel the deep circles and accompanying bags under his eyes along with the pallid, ghastly expression that had taken hold of him. He looked nothing like the Zim in the photo.

GIR still looked confused, as if he couldn't comprehend this development. Taking a few paces away from Zim, he took the photo again and stood off to the sidelines as his master brushed past him and stepped towards the raised platform. Glancing from the patient, blank expression Zim wore in the picture and back to the real flesh and blood Irken, GIR continued to wear an utterly perplexed expression before quietly slinking away into the shadows again and disappearing elsewhere. Not even a moment later, a door slam reverberated throughout the medical bay. This time, though, Zim hardly noticed his henchman's absence.

"Computer, run another biological scan." Zim made his way to the center, spreading his arms and legs slightly as he waited for the scanners to pass over him.

The computer, having already deducted the cause of his illness, paused briefly before ultimately obeying its given commands. It had no choice. Red light bathed Zim in its glow, trailing his body once more and going so far as to pass over the PAK legs that flared out behind him. He held still the entire time, staring stoically ahead.

Finally, the computer's voice spoke, simply regurgitating the information it had already known for the past twenty-four hours. " _Diagnosis complete. Infection is result of exposure to Toxin J-636. Prognosis: fatality."_

Zim heard the word and looked at the screen as if in a dream.  _What?_

He had heard of this toxin before, though it had been years since he had followed any news on his home planet. It had grown in infamy as the Meekrobian scare tactic that had sparked a cold war between themselves and Irk for over a century. It was supposedly unlike any other weapon and the resulting ailment was said to cause any Irken afflicted to suffer painful, inevitable deaths from the lack of viable life support.

His utter disbelief presented itself into something most aptly described as an irritated grunt, convinced the computer was playing some sort of sick joke on him. How on Irk could that be possible? It was simply implausible. In fact, like many Irken citizens who had been spoon-fed their race's propaganda over the years, he had been inclined to believe the toxin was nothing more than a myth.

His eyes narrowed shrewdly. "What is this? I would be in my right mind to disable you for trying to deceive Zim!" he rasped, pointing a finger symbolically in front of him, angled slightly towards the ceiling.

The computer's deep voice echoed again through the base, repeating what it had already said.  _"Toxin J-636 present within biological shell. Rest in manual charging cell heavily recommended."_

The words, though spoken in a voice void of emotion, sparked a jolt of anxiety in Zim's chest. In a mere instant, however, it quickly turned to fiery anger. The Irken growled with growing rage bubbling from within and clouding his judgment. Sometimes it was this rage alone that acted as a defense mechanism between Zim and a cruel reality. Denial that created a buffer between him and an unpleasant truth. This time, though, it was a futile attempt to turn a blind eye to something ineluctable.

"I demand you tell me—" Zim was cut off by the lowering of the main monitor screen, displaying the information just inches from his face. The computer offered no words this time, instead allowing the report to speak for itself. There before him was the scan of Zim's body, blood work, and the official diagnosis, ordered to be sent to the Control Brains per protocol. It was irrefutable proof; the root of his condition. Simply undeniable.

Zim's arm dropped to his side in an instant. As he took in the sight, a sort of glazed opacity took hold over his large, claret eyes, as if he had entered another dimension. He couldn't even begin to comprehend the information before him. So farfetched and absurd were the words on the screen, written right below the insignia standard for all Irken medical evaluations, marking it as an official document.

For a moment, all the tiny Elite could do was gape in stunned silence until his vision went blurry and unfocused. Involuntarily, he began to sway back and forth on his feet, air whistling faintly through his airway with each feeble breath. Then, simultaneously, his eyes rolled back into his head and both shaking knees buckled from beneath him. Zim crumpled to the ground in a heap, dead PAK legs spread like entrails around his body.

Before panic could claim him fully, that intense, sinking feeling of oblivion began to return instead, offering a bittersweet release from it all. It cast a haze over Zim's brain and cut off any coherent thought or feeling. Desperately, he opened his eyes, searching through the fog for something, anything. But he was blinded, his vision heavily obscured by dark spots and the promise of impending darkness.

What a tedious little thing, this feeling. So familiar and predictable, yet Zim was never any more prepared for it. It dove for him with aching force, pulling him in deeper waters and smothering him with its dark chokehold. And now, Zim's body slackened as it took hold of him once more, leaving him limp and unconscious and alone on the cold, hard floor of his medical bay.

* * *

Three streets away, over on Haverford Lane, Dib sat at his desk, trying to decipher his biology homework. He would stare intently at his page of sloppy, lackluster writing in his notebook for several minutes until his eyes glazed over and his mind began to wander back to Zim. Then, the boy would snap out of his trance and pace around the room before sitting back down and trying in vain to study once more.

A few moments later, and he would be back where he started, staring blankly down at his desk again, seeing nothing but feeling everything. This cycle went on several times and finally, Dib scowled and shoved his school books and notes off his desk a bit too vehemently, giving up on studying and succumbing to his frustrations. In doing so, he also knocked over several other paranormal gadgets that had been residing on his desk as well.

Zim was a mystery wrapped in an enigma as far as he was concerned. One moment he would spew empty threats and lies and the next, he was on the floor begging for mercy. And Dib had an innate impulse to possess goodwill, despite its typically veiled existence. It was only human of him and he despised it.

But standing in the Irken's living room, he had made his decision to ignore it. To push it back even further into his subconscious. He would not waste his time helping someone who did not want to be helped. He would not put himself through the emotional stresses of worrying about the morality of the situation. It was simple self-preservation. Whatever would happen was left purely to fate and Dib wanted no part of it.

The boy sighed and bent down under his desk to pick up his fallen belongings. In doing so, something caught his eye and he caught sight of a glowing red button on the side of his laptop, which had been buried underneath a pile of clothes under his nightstand. He remembered at once that he had recorded the entire conversation between the other Irkens who had been hellbent on ending Zim's life.

The boy's disturbed reveries were abruptly shattered in a mere second by the disarming sound of something hitting his window pane. It sounded like a little piece of shrapnel, or perhaps a rock, banging against the glass repeatedly.

Guardedly, Dib rose from his seat and turned to stare at the source of the noise. Outside was a deep, starless black and he couldn't see anything from beyond the murky curtain of night sky.

He walked over and opened the window tentatively, peering out into the darkness. Suddenly, a figure barreled through it and into the room, crashing into the wastebasket beneath Dib's desk. Dib yelped and reeled backwards, slamming the window closed in the process. He lurched towards his bed, lifting a screwdriver that was lying beneath his pillow and wielding it out in front of him in defense.

As he examined it, recognition slowly began to flood Dib's body and his alarm was quickly replaced with little more than vague annoyance.

It was that little silver robot; the one that hung around with Zim all the time. Dib couldn't quite recall its name, but he immediately recognized its tiny, childlike voice. Apparently, it had been fixed since the boy's last unpleasant encounter with the Irken.

"You have to help him! He don't look good at all!"

Dropping the screwdriver on the carpet beside him and placing both hands on his hips, Dib quirked an eyebrow and scrutinized the robot carefully. "What?"

"Master! He's in a bad way! I think he needs help!"

Dib stared at GIR incredulously, trying to make sense of the situation. He stammered for a moment before finding his words. "I-I don't give a damn! Absolutely not! I'm done 'helping' him."

He just continued to gape at the robot insanely. He couldn't believe that anything quite so dense and ignorant could possibly be the creation of a supposedly advanced alien race. Dropping his shoulders, the boy shook his head with two parts umbrage and one part twisted bemusement.

GIR barely paused, his screechy little voice transforming into a childlike plea. "B-but why not? You two are friends! You even got him a birthday present…" He stared up at Dib, perplexed innocence dripping from his words and composure.

"…Huh?" The boy just crinkled his brow in confusion as GIR stared at him expectantly. Then, somewhere in the recesses of his brain, buried behind the strange happenings of the last month, he remembered.

_Oh, right. The recording device._  That particular stunt felt like it had occurred ages ago. Dib had felt like a different person then. In fact, the entirety of his life had felt different. Like some sort of tedious little story, or perhaps a deranged cartoon. He and Zim had spent their lives going around in circles, repeating their quarrels and arguments, seemingly destined by some unseen force.

There was some sort of sick humor to be found in the situation, he supposed. His demons wouldn't leave him alone. They manifested themselves in so many ways, through thoughts and feelings and now  _this_.

And here he was, standing in his room with his rival's henchman, who may as well be a mentally-deficient, perpetual child. GIR gaped back at him, apparently waiting for him to speak again. Instead, Dib just stiffly turning back towards the window and wordlessly gestured for the newest source of his heartache to make his grand exit back through it. He glowered at the robot with as much hatred as he could muster, but GIR seemed blind to it.

The robot made no move to leave, casting pleading eyes towards Dib, boring them into his soul. They arranged themselves into something of an immature standoff until, finally, the boy's expression softened faintly and he sat down at the head of his bed, one leg tucked beneath him and the other dangling over the side.

GIR followed suit like an obedient child, clambering up the bed and taking a seat across from Dib. His little legs were spread out in front of him and his large eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness of the room. The light was somewhat coruscant, basking over the both of them in a soft, almost mesmerizing wave of warm cyan.

Dib stared at him awkwardly for a moment, then sighed.

"Look…GIR…I'm not helping Zim. I don't want to help him. And trust me, he doesn't want my help either."

He was trying to break it down as simply as he could with as few words as possible. It didn't help when he himself could barely fathom the dilemma at hand, nor his true feelings on the matter. But the robot just continued to sit there and look at him expectantly, crosshatched mouth pulled down slightly at the corners in a tiny frown. Dib sighed again, growing irritation welling from within him.

"There's nothing I can do. I think it's best if I just let whatever happens happen. In fact, I don't know why I cared so much in the first place. I'm sorry I ever did."

Shooting up from his bed again, Dib began to pace in the little circle of space in the middle of his room. GIR's presence was now but a minute detail, distant in Dib's subconscious as he began to feel anger overshadow him in a new wave. It built anew, threatening to burst in a full-blown cathartic breakdown.

"What the hell is wrong with me? Zim's too stubborn to accept my help even if I wanted to. It's not my responsibility! None of this is! I never should have broken in to his base to find out what was wrong with him. I should have known it couldn't possibly end well..." His raised voice had an air of desperation to it. He trailed off, pressing both hands to his temples and turned away from GIR, who watched him expressionlessly.

"...I never should have sent that transmission from Tak's ship. "

He squeezed his eyes shut in agony before whipping around to face the robot again, who hadn't moved an inch. He just continued to sit on the end of Dib's bed, eyes stuck on the gangly figure as he panted and balled his fists tightly, as if in preparation to punch something.

"Besides, why  _should_  I help him? Do you really think he would do the same for me? Zim doesn't care about anyone but himself. All he's ever done is make my life harder! If he knew what I had done for him already, it wouldn't change anything. Because I tried! I tried to help him. Multiple times! So it's not my fault if he ends up dying because of his own stupidity! In fact, it's long overdue if you ask me!"

He waited until his breathing evened out before finally cracking open an eye to look at GIR again. When he spoke this time, it was in a lower, more collected voice.

"Zim made his decision. And I made mine. There. That's why. Now get out of here."

The blank cyan eyes that stared back at him made it impossible to decipher his true reaction. Finally, after an achingly long amount of time, a tiny voice rang through the air. "But… _why_?"

Dib growled under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb before finally exploding in unadulterated rage. "I JUST TOLD YOU WHY! Now go back to wherever you came from!"

Abruptly, he stalked over to his bed again and threw open the window, gesturing dramatically with both his hands this time. He was done with this conversation. More than anything, he just wanted to be left alone.

The little robot barely flinched at his outburst, so used to similar incidents with his master. He did, however, begin to tear up and snivel quietly on his end of the bed, making no move to leave.

Several seconds passed by and Dib slowly dropped his arms and began to slouch where he was standing. He cocked his head and glanced down at the tiny thing as it cried, though his countenance, made of stone and malice, didn't falter this time.

Then, silently, the robot stood up and began to climb to the window sill. He paused and turned to the boy again, looking hopelessly forlorn. "B-but, he needs you…"

Dib only stared at him, mouth pulled down in a frown and eyes still alight with anger. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, without another word, the robot hung his head and activated his jets. Just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, careening out into the night and disappearing down the street in a blur of silver and luminous turquoise.

Dib stiffened, eyes wide with shock at the unexpected action. The blast from GIR's thrusters had left his eyebrows singed and hair blown wildly against the top of his head. After the robot had vanished, Dib sat down at the edge of his bed again and rubbed his temples.

Several moments passed in the dark of the house. The silence was so heavy, only the faint ticking of the clock in the foyer could be heard. The glow from his computer screen went out as the machine went into hibernation mode.

Dib flopped backwards on the mattress and gazed blankly at his ceiling. For a time, all he did was glower at the poster above him. All those stars and planets printed on cheap, glossy paper.

As much as he tried, he could not rid himself of the revolting sense of pity he felt. No outburst or confrontation or moment of solitude could quell it. Even when he tried to repress it, it still came back for him. This time in the form of a silver, doltish robot.

And though it was the lowest form of sympathy, Dib still detested feeling anything but hatred towards his nemesis.

Zim was still a threat to humanity. He was evil incarnate, as far as Dib had been concerned. He possessed absolutely no benevolence of any kind. From the time the alien had arrived on Earth, he had destroyed the town several times over, captured humans to use as test subjects, and had been responsible for quite a few of Dib's scars. Both physical and mental. Absolutely  _nothing_  could justify what Dib felt for him.

And yet, as much as he loathed himself for it, he could not deny that those feelings were in earnest. He had unwittingly peeled back the truth about Zim and his entire livelihood. The alien had failed miserably at being respected amongst humanity, yet he seemed to struggle just as much, if not more, amongst his own race. His very existence, it seemed, was a mistake.

And seeing him in the flesh almost immediately afterwards had only reaffirmed Dib's wavering fortifications of obstinate hatred. From Zim's pleas to his sickly appearance, the boy couldn't possibly see the little green menace in his former light. It had possessed him to cease his half-baked plan of exposing him. Not only that, but it had also compelled him to carry the limp little creature back upstairs, to clean him of his own mess and wrap his shivering body with blankets. And of course, when the Irken awakened, it was back to unaltered taunting and hostility in the blink of an eye. Deep in Dib's subconscious, he knew that Zim's pride was the greatest barrier between them both.

His thoughts began to flitter, fueled by sleep-deprived inebriation. He remembered back to before, when he thought he had lost the Irken for good. Even more than the sorrow of loss, though, was the fact that he felt guilt for it. As if it were  _his_  fault that he didn't do more.

He remembered sinking to the floor in the dirty skool bathroom, allowing emotions he never knew he possessed for Zim to reveal themselves.

Maybe his guilt from before had been baseless. There had been nothing more he could have done from his hunched little seat in the dim cockpit of Tak's ship that night. It was not his fault. This time, though, if Zim perished, it would be. If he walked away, having turned his back on him and rebuffed his insane robot in his time of need, guilt would be his deserved burden.

Dib began to feel something stir within him. So very familiar and dreadful, and yet he could not put a name to it. It possessed him to arise from his bed and head to his closet in a daze. Before he knew it, he was wrapped snugly in a black coat and marching out of his dark house and into the chilled nighttime air.

Indignantly, Dib paraded onward through the empty streets and fluttering snowflakes, a quiet sigh escaping him. His breath became visible in the chilled air, but no amount of cold could shake him from his stupor. Each step was mechanical, every sense numb. At that moment, though, somewhere through the internal fog and trance he had fallen into, Dib knew unequivocally that he had truly gone as crazy as the world had claimed.

* * *

Back at the Irken's home, deep within the catacombs of his base, Zim continued to fade in and out of consciousness, caught in a ceaseless tidal wave of everlasting horror and encroaching darkness.

Every fleeting thought triggered a fresh skip in his heartbeat, every passing shadow aroused another croupy gasp that caught in his throat and caused a horrid bout of coughing. Sometimes, in a burst of perception, he would try to speak or stand. But his voice had all but vanished and he could only make his way to his knees before keeling over again and falling into the abyss of darkness once more.

And through the fog of his illness, he manifested every imaginable threat before him in a terrifying dreamscape of combined anxiety and dim fever dreams as his body forced sleep upon him in the absence of his PAK's basic protocols.

The entirety of the last month marched through his dreams, as if he were subconsciously trying to decipher what had ascended to plague him with this curse.

Preparing for the Progress Convention. Flying to Conventia. Being mocked by the other, far less superior Invaders. Being ambushed by an unknown enemy—the rogue Irken. The one who had tried to kill him multiple times, starting with the plasma blaster back on the planet's surface. But there was something else odd about that night.

In a feverish haze, he relived the choking, stifling feeling within the cockpit of his Voot as toxin filled his lungs over and over again. He remembered clawing for his oxygen mask, working his fingers bloody as he tried to open the hatch. And then darkness.

It made too much sense. That night had sealed his fate with every gasp of air, every moment within the airtight cockpit of his ship. Deep within his unconscious mind, the epiphany hit him with the full force of bleak, macabre truth.

His PAK was failing to support its host; Zim's very body. It explained why he was fraught with exhaustion and illness, no doubt from a weakened immune system. He knew the outcome of infection. It had been engineered to wipe out the entire race. Death was its sole purpose.

His nightmares swirled through his mind like a sick, continual joke. It was even worse when he was awake, though; he saw only demented hallucinations.

He could see the Irken, the very one who was so intent on killing him, perched in the rafters and making his aim, a mauve plasma blaster brandished before him. Ready to extinguish the tiny Irken's life with one pull of the trigger. Yearning only for the cold satisfaction of Zim's final breath.

Then he saw GIR, his horrid little robot, with not even the common sense to run in the face of danger. His eyes were blank and grey, leaving an overwhelming portentousness in his hollow gaze that Zim could not look at for long. In reality, he was perfectly fine, repaired and out in the world running amok as he usually did. And yet that gaze haunted Zim like an omen of impending death. It could never be wiped from his mind.

Very last, he saw the Dib, tall and gangly as ever, emerging from the darkness with blood in his eyes and venom in his cracking voice. He was standing in the shadows, waiting to exploit the Irken in his weakened state. Why he didn't before, Zim knew not. The human was tenacious and unpredictable in his newfound adolescence.

Zim felt his vision fail and his eyelids droop. He was losing consciousness again. Then, suddenly, in the back of his mind, swimming with visions of Dib and GIR, of rogue Irkens and Toxin J-636, he heard a vague, yet distinct tick.

It went on like a metronome, somewhere within his own head. It was soothing in a sense, full of predictability and rhythm. And yet, deep inside his mind, full scale panic abruptly beat at the walls of his failing consciousness. Instantly, Zim's heartbeat picked up like a drum, desperately thumping in his chest, trying to beat its way out.

That ticking. It could only be one thing. It was the lullaby all dying Irkens slipped away with.

Zim opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.  _GIR. Where was GIR? His charging cell!_  He had despised the mere idea of using it. Suddenly, he yearned for it with insurmountable desperation.

Paralyzed and shrouded firmly with simultaneous dissociation and panic, he was unable to move nor see his reality as it faded away from him with each second. All he could do was lay there, slipping into utter nothingness to the cadence of his own lifeclock.


	11. Of Chaos Theory and Half-Baked Revelations

His mind had resigned itself to the onus Dib felt thrust upon him, regardless of reason.

He had memorized the quickest route to Zim's base long ago and his feet trudged forward almost of their own accord. He had walked this way hundreds of times, all for the same reason; to ensure that Zim wasn't in the midst of plotting anything that could be a legitimate danger to mankind. Now, though, it was the Irken himself who was in danger.

The sole thing keeping him connected to reality was the soft crunch of his boots through the snow and the fog of his breath in the dead of night. The weather here was never consistent. Especially not in March. It went by its own accord, warm one day and in single digits the next until the reassuring inevitability of summer skies could quell its unpredictability.

The wind nipped at his face and its intensity nearly blinded him as the snowflakes assaulted his vision. Dib kept a straight face, though, as he ambled on. It wasn't much of an effort.

Never before, though, had be felt so…absent. Absent of logic and a clear, concrete motive. Absent of that tie that brought him down to earth and provided him with the rationale to make informed decisions based on judgement instead of intuition alone.

Something almost otherworldly seemed to compel him to keep moving forward, to trudge down the snow-covered sidewalk and ignore the maelstrom of squalls and blistering cold around him.

Perhaps this was what insanity felt like.  _True_  insanity. It was the omission of reason in one's actions, replaced instead with blind persistence and recklessness. Even more than that, though, it was utter peace with the open acknowledgement of it.

Dib's soft hazel eyes were fixed stoically ahead in an expression void of any emotion.

If one were to even begin to understand his motive, or lack thereof, it could perhaps be understood through a building of disorder. It began with something small and unexplained and manifested itself until it was unable to be ignored. Chaos theory, he supposed. Deep in the back of his mind, the boy began to reflect on his actions through the past month.

_It was the press of a button on a pilfered Irken space vessel; one that would send out a brief transmission from several galaxies away. One that would warn Zim about impending danger._

Inexplicably, he began to pick up his pace a little, long legs taking great strides down the sidewalk.

_It was the absence of the little alien that followed; the physical embodiment of Dib's self-proclaimed purpose in life. And that butterfly effect only built up, swelling and growing in force without any realization at the time._

_It was a stylus on the classroom floor and a breakdown in the men's bathroom._

_It was the warm wash of relief that was quickly replaced by blinding confusion upon seeing Zim's return._

He made it to the intersection at Haverford and Maple before pressing forward, arms swinging stiffly by his side as he sped up little by little.

_It was persistence on both ends; crippling denial and the confrontations that dared disrupt the balance that had been mastered years before._

_It was a punch in face on the blacktop and the fat lip it left behind…_

Just one more block. Dib's heartbeat picked up in his chest, his breath quickening. He frowned, then began to unconsciously break into a slight jog. The streetlights lined the way, gossamer illumination peeking through from behind the falling snow and thick fog.

_It was breaking into his home and finding something out about Zim that not even the Irken himself knew…or at least something he would never admit to. It was seeing him for what he really was: a lonely individual who was shunned by everyone, even his own race, for his eccentricity._

_It was the subtle understanding that he and Zim weren't so different after all…_

Dib stopped for a split second, breath trailing out of his mouth in thick puffs of fog. Then, suddenly, he burst into a full sprint, dashing through the snow and running against the blustering wind. Goosebumps appeared on his arms beneath his heavy coat and bitter cold stung at his face. Flakes gathered on his glasses and he swiped them off his face, racing even faster down the street.

Somewhere along the way, whether it was from the very beginning or a slow burn in Dib's chest, he was coming to a stark realization. The alien meant something to him and it was far more than a ticket to fame or an exploitation of his crooked intentions. And for now, that's all he needed to know.

His eyes began to water, but he wasn't sure if it was from the overflow of emotions coursing through his body or the mixture of gusts and snow that assaulted his face as he dashed towards Zim's base.

He could almost see it in the distance, that glowing green beacon, nestled between two apartment complexes in the cul-de-sac at the end of Greenbush Way.

The boy skidded on the ice and toppled over, scraping the heels of his hands against the pavement as he tried to break his fall. Without even giving it pause for thought, he scrambled back to his feet and continued to bolt forward, quickly shortening the distance between him and whatever mysteries lay in wait.

His hands stung and he could hardly see straight, but he made it to the front door and immediately began banging on it. Receiving no response, he jerked his body sharply to the left and pressed his hands against Zim's window, iced over from the frost. He breathed on it a little and rubbed the glass with one frozen hand before peering inside.

Nothing. Not even GIR. The living room was still and dark, the television turned off. The closer Dib looked, he could see pile of blankets on the couch and the glass of water on the floor just where he had left it hours earlier.

Then, moving back to the door, Dib forcefully twisted the knob with one numb, scraped-up hand. Finding it to be unlocked, desperation melted abruptly into astonishment and he burst into the dark foyer, almost falling over himself as he did so.

"Zim!" he yelled into the void.

* * *

"Master?"

GIR poked at Zim's body, lying face down on the floor, then stared at him expectantly. He was in the deepest sector of the base, where he had found the Irken in the medical bay. Now, he sat patiently beside him and tried to figure out this new game.

"…Master?"

When the little alien didn't budge, he grabbed hold of one limp antenna and yanked it downwards like an old-timey doorbell. "Ding dong! Anybody home?"

Not so much as a flinch arose from the Elite, even at the rough tug of his most sensitive organ. He lay in a crumpled heap on the large metal platform of his medical scanner, dim lights from his various monitors bathing over him in a delicate, mauve-colored glow.

"Are you sleeping? Huh?"

GIR leaned down on his hands and knees, pressed right against Zim's face. He was about to start poking at him again when he heard a noise from upstairs. It was the sound of heavy footfalls and a male voice, calling out something. Leaving his spot from beside his master, GIR dashed back towards the elevator.

* * *

Dib was in a dreadful state, nose and ears red from the merciless cold, as he panted and searched the dark room. The second his wild eyes sought GIR arising from the toilet, he lunged towards him.

"Where is Zim?" he demanded.

"Mary! You came!" the little robot shouted joyously, seemingly deaf to the overwhelming urgency in Dib's voice. He sprang towards him and grabbed the tail ends of the boy's coat, expression absolutely unreadable; Dib couldn't tell if his energy stemmed from ecstasy or panic.

Dib peered into the kitchen, still searching for any sign of Zim. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, sensing something was terribly wrong. The Irken was nowhere in sight. Not even his security system seemed to be running; otherwise Dib would have been booted back outside in an instant.

Pulling GIR off his jacket, he rigidly bent down so that he was eye-level to the SIR unit. " _Where is Zim_?"

"Oh right. He's downstairs sleeping on the floor!"

Dib's heart sank. "Look, I need you to take me to him. Right now."

GIR hurriedly directed Dib over to a conduit entrance beneath a nightstand in the living room. Ducking down in the elevator, the boy stood next to him as it began moving.

Once in, the robot turned to Dib. "Master's still all badly. Are you gonna help me make him breakfast in bed for when he wakes up?"

Dib stared at him blankly, heart thrashing in his chest. He couldn't even bear to humor him. He just continued to shuffle his feet and rock anxiously from side to side as the lift laconically made its way down.

Finally, they stopped at one of the bottom floors and Dib peered out. It was the medical bay, familiar and just the same as when he had snuck down here the day before, complete with its ominous, unsettling aura and smells of disinfectant. The same computer monitor he had used to meddle in Zim's affairs just hours earlier was lowered and glowing slightly, with various words printed in Irken adorning the screen.

The one difference, however, was the very first thing that caught Dib's eye. Beneath the monitor lay a rather peculiar and nondescript object. Initially, it appeared to be a pile of tangled metal, strewn haphazardly across the floor. As he got closer, though, he noticed that the long rods, joints interlocking at strange angles, half-covered something small and pale green.

Adrenaline filled his veins instantly as Dib rushed towards it. Dropping to the ground, he quickly worked his way through the tangled mess, pushing the mechanical limbs aside, and immediately began shaking the alien's shoulder roughly.

"ZIM! Zim?" His voice was quivering slightly.

The Irken was sprawled out unnaturally and didn't so much as stir as Dib jostled him. The boy began to break into tremors as panic shot through his veins like ice water. Grabbing hold of the same shoulder, he rolled the Elite onto his side and took a closer look at him.

The crumpled little alien was laced in cold sweat, his eyes shut and face almost…peaceful in a desolate sort of way. Both antennae had lost their usual bounce, the once expressive stalks wilted like dead flowers on the floor. His skin was a pale, deathly hue. Was he even alive?

Dib lifted one limp arm and tried to feel a pulse. When he couldn't detect anything, he pressed two fingers into the sides of Zim's throat. His hands were shaking too much to get any sort of reading, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

The boy racked the back of his mind, trying to see past the growing fear bubbling inside him and clouding his judgement.  _CPR. CPR was what you did in this kind of scenario, right?_  He tried to recall the unit at skool when they went over it in health class.

At the end of the semester, the students took a test on what they had learned and those who passed would be certified by the American Red Cross. Dib had failed the final assessment, having spent all his free time watching Mysterious Mysteries and obsessing over whatever paranormal phenomena had demanded his scrutiny. Now, more than anything, he wished he had paid attention.

Glancing back at Zim, Dib centered his hands over the Irken's chest and interlocked his fingers in preparation to begin chest compressions. W _as it fifteen compressions for every two breaths? Or thirty?_  Before he could even begin pumping up and down, though, he realized the PAK fused to Zim's back would make this process far too difficult. He needed a smooth surface. Dib lowered his arms and frowned. A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead and dripped from the tip of his nose. He was at a loss.

Suddenly, a booming male voice came on overhead.  _"Expiration imminent. Two minutes remaining on lifeclock."_

The boy jumped back in alarm, shaken from his concentration. "Whuu?"

He glanced around for the source of the voice. It seemed to emanate throughout the entire room, as if the base itself were a sentient force.

_"Irken Zim's PAK is no longer functioning. It must be connected to an outside source of life support,"_  the computer directed in a deep monotone.

Dib's heartbeat picked up anew in his chest as he tried to process this. "I-I don't know what that means…" he squeaked.

_"In order for a chance at survival, he must be connected to the manual charging cell located in the southeastern wing of the medical bay."_

The boy's hands began shaking again and he knelt down next to the Irken, still limp and recumbent, as he fleetingly balked at the idea of picking him up. Then, with all his prior urgency, plus some well-placed clumsiness, he pulled Zim up by his arms. Wrapping one of his own arms around the Irken's skinny shoulders and the other beneath his knees, he tried to scoop him up bridal-style. Despite his diminutive size, however, Zim's body was alarmingly dead weight, and therefore heavier than Dib would have initially guessed.

It was in the midst of trying to get a proper grip on him that the computer's echoing voice came on overhead again.

_"Biological shell has exactly one minute before imminent expiration."_

Dib grunted as he shifted his weight and attempted to sling Zim's body over his shoulder instead. "And…w-what does t-that mean?" he demanded, taking a few shy steps towards the room the computer had directed him to.

_"Zim has less than a minute of life left,"_  the computer stated, undertones of impatience inexplicably seeping through its bland voice.

Dib nearly dropped the Irken as this set in, eyes growing as wide as saucers behind his thick glasses.

" _What_ …?" the word came out as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Zim's body sagged to the right, causing him to stumble in his attempts to keep balance. Then, hitching him up higher on his shoulder, he booked it across the room and pushed his way into what he presumed to be the "charging cell".

Blocked off from the rest of the medical bay, it was a curiously constructed monochromatic cubicle. The inside consisted of nothing but a thinly-fabricated medical examination table and a couple of monitors. Nearby was a substantially thick cable, which trailed from somewhere up above, amid the tangle of cords and wires that made up Zim's ceiling.

The second Dib heaved the Irken's body onto the table, the cable attached itself to the top port of Zim's PAK, as if through some sort of magnetic force. The boy lurched backwards, startled, as it did so.

At once, the other two blank monitors lit up and a high-pitched beeping began to resound. Dib cupped his hands over his ears and clenched his teeth, searching for the source of it. The noise reverberated throughout the base, sounding remarkably like a heart monitor flatlining. Zim's eyes remained tightly closed, deaf to the world in his cataleptic state.

Then, it slowly ceased and the pink ports on Zim's PAK lit up and began to glow softly. In a steady rhythm, they flashed from dull to bright, illuminating off the hard metal walls of the contraption and the table Zim was lying on.

The charging cell was a last resort to preserve an Irken's vital functions until another form of medical expertise could be accessed. A cold hand of relief; a secondary jolt of life support. Dib watched the entire process, entranced, though he didn't fully understand what was going on.

He continued to scrutinize the Irken's face for any changes. Zim remained still and chalky white from his spot on the table. This lasted for only a couple moments before the lights on Zim's PAK dimmed and flickered out and the ear-splitting bleating returned.

"WHAT IS THAT?" Dib hollered over the noise. As he shouted, it quieted once more and the ports lit up in its place.

_"Due to the toxin, the PAK is steadily declining in efficiency. As a result, the charging cell is experiencing initial difficulties indicating its presence,_ " the computer said.

Dib could decipher just enough of its needless technological jargon to vaguely understand what it meant. Zim's life support was only working in bits and spurts—leaving him hanging on by a thread as this auxiliary force struggled to keep his vitals functioning through the barrier that his PAK posed.

In the meantime, the Elite hadn't moved an inch, nor had he shown any signs of life, save for a slightly deeper breath intake. Dib looked down at him, a flicker of hope dancing across his face. That was better, right? A minute had come and gone and Zim was still alive, if just barely. The technicalities of Irken mechanics were still something that eluded Dib, but he tried to take comfort in this little change.

"Well…where do I go from here?" he asked the computer, trying to calm his nerves. "What else does he need?"

_"In addition to PAK deficiency and weakened immunity to illness, Zim is suffering from extreme dehydration, critically low glucose levels, hypertension, and concussion."_

The boy winced as he remembered the loud smack of the Irken's head on the floor of his lab the day before as he tried to flee towards the elevator. That could explain the vomiting and disorientation he had experienced afterwards. And…everything else…

"So…what do I do for all that?" he asked meekly.

_"Fluids must be administered to him intravenously and vitals should be monitored intensively for any sign of change. The necessary supplies can be found in the main wing of medical bay. Constant rest is required until a PAK expert can be contacted or medica—"_

The boy slowly drowned out the rest of what the computer droned on about as the severity of the situation dawned on him. Zim was essentially in intensive care, at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy who understood absolutely nothing concerning medical know-how. He had no experience inserting IVs or attaching monitoring pads, and the very idea make him queasy. Not to mention, any Irken equipment that was in the base would most likely vary drastically from its human counterparts. He shuffled his feet nervously, heart stuttering as he realized the alternative would be watching Zim die a slow, needless death without proper care.

Before Dib could reluctantly leave to retrieve the supplies, he glanced back down at the Invader and immediately pursed his lips, worried brows furrowing deeper at yet another predicament.

The alien was still drenched in sweat, causing his clothing to stick to him and leave smears on the stainless-steel edges of the table. He was resting awkwardly on his back, the cable from the charging cell jutting out on one side and the tangled array of PAK legs swept off to the other.

What Zim was lying on was not a bed, and it certainly didn't serve to provide any sort of real comfort. It was merely an examination table, head piece propped up slightly and the surface covered with a very thin layer of cushioned fabric. And Dib hadn't seen anything resembling a bed or a cot in the entire medical bay.

Stupid Irkens with their damn pride. It was as if they earnestly believed that honest-to-God debilitation was so far out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe that was just Zim.

Sighing, Dib reluctantly left the Elite and headed back towards the conduit in search of linens. Meanwhile, his heart was still hammering in his chest and he was beginning to sweat through his down coat. He was getting overwhelmed quickly with all that was going on and how much he had to do. The fresh air would do him good, he reasoned, as the elevator doors closed.

Shortly after ordering the computer to take him to the main floor, he thought of something else.

"Hey…why are you taking orders from me?" he asked the computer. "Not that I'm not thankful or anything, it's just…" he trailed off.

The computer took a moment before answering. When it did though, the voice was as dry as ever, echoing around the walls of the tiny space.  _"I don't have a choice. After you hacked into the base, Zim brought the vocal interface back online, but not the security system. And basic programming protocols dictate that I follow any orders that work to benefit the mission."_

_And keeping Zim alive was part of the mission._  Wording it like that made Dib pause for thought, a growing pit in his stomach. He was helping the enemy. If the world fell to the clutches of the Irken Empire after all this, he would have only himself to blame. Him and his damn sentimentality. Regardless of what he knew about Zim at this point, this idea didn't sit well with him. He still felt like he was playing with fire. Dancing with the unknown.

The boy kept silent after the computer's reply, stepping off the elevator and stoically into the main room. GIR was in the kitchen, pulling something that smelled burnt and acrid from the oven.

"Is Master all better?" he asked. The robot proudly held out the tray he was holding. "Looky! I made him tater tots for when he wakes up!"

Dib barely glanced at the smoking, charred lumps that were presented before him as he made his way briskly into the living room. He scooped up the blankets and pulled pillows off the couch, mind elsewhere. Carrying the pile back towards the elevator, he groaned slightly at the sound of tiny mellitic footfalls behind him. He sighed and narrowed his eyes as GIR followed him back to the medical bay.

He found the equipment needed to set up an IV drip and a tangle of wires and pads near the biological scanner. Snatching these up, he carried the lot to the charging cell and glanced apprehensively at Zim from behind the mountain of linens and supplies.

The crumpled little alien was just as he had left him, and the dreadfully loud beeping of the charging cell had started up again. Dib dumped the blankets and pillows on the floor and walked over to him.

He felt sheepish and stupid as he tugged at the sleeve of Zim's damp shirt, like a child playing doctor. He had no idea what to do, really, and there was so much that needed to be done. As he let go of the shirt, the beeping stopped again, leaving jarring silence in its wake.

It took some time and a bit of cutting at the thin fabric with a pair of scissors that he found in a first aid kit in the main wing before Dib was finally able to remove the mauve garment from him. With the cable deep in one port of his PAK and the mechanical limbs awkwardly crammed around it, the feat of removing the alien's last shreds of military clothing was absurdly difficult. Not to mention, in the midst of it, Zim began to tremble slightly and pinch his eyes tighter shut, making it harder to complete the task at hand.

At last, though, he peeled the top off him, easing it over the alien's PAK and bending his elbows inward to free them from the fabric. The pants came next and Dib awkwardly tried to avert his eyes as he undressed the alien. "You owe me for this, space jerk," he mumbled as he freed the last pant leg from Zim's tiny ankle and tossed them aside with the shirt. That done, Dib drew a thick quilt from its spot on the floor and quickly covered up his shivering body before moving onto the next step.

Through the entire ordeal, the charging cell had continually dropped connection and regained it, emitting that awful beeping each time. Dib felt ringing in his ears from the noise, and he glanced anxiously at the medical supplies on the floor and various computer monitors currently on standby.

_Would now be a bad time to Google what this stuff does?_

Hesitantly, Dib lowered the blanket, exposing Zim's chest and skinny arms. He looked down at him for a moment in something most aptly described as scientific fascination. Like his father, Dib was enamored with the unknown and its implications. His focus, however, stemmed from the paranormal, going far beyond what Earth's science could feasibly explain. And the little green alien was just that.

Three tiny ribs protruded from either side of the delicate skin on Zim's chest, becoming more defined with each deep breath he inhaled. Other than that, the Irken was void of anything on his torso that would bear any semblance to a human's anatomy. He had no navel, nor nipples, and not even the slightest blemish was visible on the pale, jade-green skin.

Just like his hands, he had three toes on each foot. They poked out slightly from the edge of the blanket, the tips ended in tiny claw-like points. Dib shuddered at the sight of them and briefly wondering how the alien managed to put his socks and shoes on without tearing them to shreds in the process.

Finally, he looked back at his face, pinched tight in distress and laced with sweat.

For a moment, Dib felt guilt and remorse for Zim's state. The alien was so obsessed with staying covered up in the presence of others, he wouldn't even change into his gym clothes at skool. In fact, during the 9th grade, he had received a failing grade for his "refusal to participate" in PE.

He had always prided himself on his stiff composure and impeccable appearance, cold and aloof in the face of others in every way possible. Perpetually small and pissed-off, Zim was constantly poised for confrontation and bursting with distrustful vigor at every turn. Military training had made him that way. Had the tiny Irken been awake, Dib was positive he would be met with angry claws and a confounding slew of insults.

But now…in the most vulnerable and undignified state possible, he looked unrecognizable from the alien he knew so well. The Zim he knew was an arrogant and prideful creature, taking advantage of Dib's weaknesses in every way possible. It went far beyond their own battles for the Earth, too. He had always been there to laugh at Dib's defeats in every facet of his life.

Getting rejected by the girl he had been infatuated with all year long? Zim was there to add insult to injury, pointing and cackling from across the cafeteria while chastising him on his "pathetic human need for affection". Getting a 98% on his chemistry final? Of course, Zim had gotten that token 100%, making him "exactly 2% better".

But it had also pushed Dib to be better in the process. To prove his nemesis wrong. To prove  _everyone_  wrong. And he was gradually beginning to realize just how much he had depended on the alien to be that anchor, in an ironic symbiosis that had been left unspoken between the two.

With a melancholy air, he winced and picked up a tangle of telemetry leads before looking back up at the ceiling.

"Uhh…where do I put these?" he asked pathetically to the empty room.

"Each color goes to a different part of the chest," the computer resonated from up above. "Place the brown pad at the bottom of the sternum."

Dib did as he was told and waited patiently for further instructions.

"The white goes to the right side…" The computer sounded like it was directing a brainless child to do some rudimentary task.

The boy complied like such, making the process painstakingly tedious and slow. The next several minutes were spent with the computer blandly guiding him where to place the pads and how to set up the IV.

Yet another problem arose when Dib had to insert the needle into a nearly-invisible vein inside Zim's wrist. He had absolutely no idea how such a task was performed on a human, never mind an extraterrestrial. It took a painful number of jabs and pricks to Zim's delicate skin before Dib shakily set it down and begged the computer to help him. It took even longer to quell the consequential bleeding that had occurred as a result of all the failed attempts. Dib felt bile rise in the back of his throat, threatening to make an unwanted appearance.

By the end of the debacle, however, one of the screens was up and running, displaying a staggering variety of information on Zim's cardiac stats and the painstakingly-inserted IV had begun administering much-needed fluids into his system.

Finally, Dib tucked the woolly fabric of Zim's blanket around him to trap his body heat and reached for the pillows. Strategically slipping them beneath and around the alien's PAK and head, he tried to relieve as much pressure from the alien's back against the table as possible. At last, he stood back to examine the results of his meticulous handiwork.

Zim looked pathetic. His antennae were pinned awkwardly behind him, the little flexes on one bent outwards towards Dib and the other pressed between the table and his lolling head. His partly open mouth drew in weak, ragged breaths with unsteady timing and his long, segmented tongue stuck out from between his lips at an odd angle.

"Jeez, Zim. You're a mess," Dib muttered, sighing deeply.

The alien, of course, didn't respond. He had, however, quieted his tremors just slightly and his face was beginning to regain some color.

Finished with these tedious and emotionally draining tasks, Dib slumped to the floor beside him and pulled his knees to his chest. He tilted his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. All the worries that had churned around incessantly inside his mind were slowly being drowned with exhaustion. He couldn't for the life of him remember when he had slept last. The entirety of the last few days had been nothing but stress, anger, and frustration.

Gradually, his heavy eyelids began to draw to a close. Before he knew it, Dib had fallen into a sleep just as light and shallow as the breathing of the sickly alien beside him while the bleating of the monitor droned on and time carried them forth into a new chapter.

* * *

"Send an outgoing transmission to Invader Tenn."

Larb's low, nasally voice pierced the air from within his Zhook, where he had been trying to simultaneously track Zim and sidestep any inquiries from the Tallest. He sounded tired and infuriated, with just a hint of stifled fear in his tone.

More than anything, he was enraged with himself. He had grown weak over the years following his enslavement of the Vortians, and it was beginning to show in the most humiliating way possible. Pride and arrogance are a perfect recipe for such an event and both had nearly taken over him.

No longer did he bother to retain information about physical combat with such vigilance with time gone by. All of that was pushed to the back of his PAK's encoding to make room for fond memories of celebration with the planetary convergence team on the Massive, launching the cannon sweep, and pretending that the Tallest cared about his rising success.

Years of training had gone seemingly forgotten, to the point where he couldn't even take down an unsuspecting screw-up of a soldier in the beginning stages of an infection. It was clear even then that the virus was beginning to affect him. It showed in his stride and troubled breathing. And he had let the defective get away just like that, with his pathetic little robot no less. To say that it had wounded his almost impenetrable pride was an understatement. Larb was nothing if not persistent.

Following the incident, he had wrapped his flesh wound tightly with gauze from the med kit in his ship, cursing and grunting as his PAK whirred and worked to repair the bleeding tissue.

That had been almost a week ago. Now, the injury was nothing more than an unpleasant memory. The smooth, healed skin in its place only served as a reminder that Larb was running out of time, though.

The transmission screen on his dash beeped for a few moments and then lit up as the transmission was received. In an instant, a familiar stoic face emerged, accompanied by light pink eyes and flippantly curled antennae, presently pressed back in hostility.

"What do you want, Larb?" The words were spat in a monotonous, nasally voice without any greeting to predate them. Tenn glared at him from the screen, not bothering to conceal her blatant annoyance.

"I require your assistance with this matter," he said through gritted teeth, getting right to the point.

She cackled lightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Assistance with what? Can't handle your 'special mission'? Maybe you shouldn't have been so overzealous. You always were."

Larb and Tenn had been a part of separate smeet hatches, trained in different squadrons, had specialized in different invading tactics, and yet they had always been rivals. Competitiveness and hostility were a constant with them and had only increased with time. When Impending Doom II had been announced, they had both been assigned the two most controversial planets in the mix marked for Irken conquest, serving only to intensify it further.

"I shouldn't even be wasting my time with someone who hasn't even conquered her first assignment after five years!" Larb spat back at her. "But you have information that could prove useful to me regarding this particular task."

"Invaders work alone," she replied icily, "Besides, I know better than to get involved with this mess." Everything about her reply and posture dripped with annoyance and disgust. She wished to return to her own work and her expression made it very clear that she couldn't be bothered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a planet to conquer."

"Wait!" Larb demanded before she could end the transmission.

"What?" she asked flatly.

The Invader glanced around, scrounging for a way to coerce her. Finally, after a second, his eyes narrowed, and he regained focus. "If you knew what was good for you, you would provide your aid."

"Oh? And why is that?" She didn't bother to stifle the laughter that burst forth at his statement. Larb, however, didn't flinch.

"Because you are the one who brought the toxin back from Meekrob. And  _you_  are the one who agreed to use it against the defective."

"I was  _ordered_  to by the Tallest," she briskly corrected. "What's your point?" Tenn narrowed her pink eyes at his image on her screen.

He tried to formulate his next words to work in his favor. "You already are involved in this. If I fail in this mission, it compromises all of us.  _Especially_  you."

The Irken crossed her arms, continuing to glower at Larb. However, one brow raised inquisitively at this statement.

"Who do you think the Control Brains will suspect as the instigator?" he spat. "Their beloved leaders...or the only Irken sent to infiltrate Meekrob, masquerading as a chemical engineer? They will suspect you far before they suspect them. Help me or risk losing your credibility…your reputation…."

Tenn kept up her rigid glare, but her arms slowly dropped to her sides as she considered this.

"Your mission..."

She suddenly frowned and glanced up quickly. "What do you want, Larb?" she hissed coarsely.

"I need to know about the nature of this toxin. And if you happen to have coordinates to this 'Earth' planet," he stated unsmilingly.

She sighed deeply, countenance full of malice and contempt that only an Irken could pull off with flawless awe. Finally, she begrudgingly answered. "The defective was only exposed to a very small amount of it, which is likely just prolonging the infection. He shouldn't be contagious and if he's even still alive, his PAK has likely stopped many of its functions. He should be an easy target."

Larb listened intently, his own face composed of stone. "And this planet?"

Tenn pulled up a map of the known Irken galaxy on his computer. "It's located on the very edge of the Stultus quadrant. Good luck finding any exact coordinates, though. The Irken Intergalactic Research team hadn't even confirmed its existence before The Great Assigning, and after the defective was 'assigned' to it, they didn't bother."

The Invader nodded sharply as Tenn's image came back over the screen. "There. You have your information. Now, will you do me the honors of ending this wretched transmission?" she asked, tone void of any emotion.

"With pleasure," Larb muttered humorlessly. His antennae lay flat against his skull. Instantly, her chagrined face vanished from sight as he grandiosely pressed the button to end the call without any show of gratitude or even a parting statement.

The conqueror of Vort sat back in his chair and fully immersed himself in the jarring silence that followed. He reveled in the satisfaction of how easily he was able to bend her to his will, tugging his lips upwards in an ugly sneer and exposing the upper row of zippered teeth. It was nothing short of a personal triumph, and he relished it with all the pride his spiteful little body could muster.

After a mere moment, he shifted his pleased smirk to an expression of cold determination and proceeded to change his coordinates towards the direction of planet Earth.


	12. Of Residual Doubts and Irken Indignities

Dib lost track of time as he hunkered down in the medical bay, sitting beside Zim's blanket-swathed form. It was a continuous cycle to see the latter drift between oscillating shivers and deathly stillness as he lay sunken into his covers. Through it all, the machines bleated away rhythmically and dim light basked over the Irken's ashen face as the hours passed them by.

For surely it must have been hours, if not a full day. It was as though time had stood still, though, deep in the bowels of the base. Not even the slightest inkling of sunshine nor moonlight could gleam through, and Dib couldn't be certain whether it was night or day.

Just as static was the scene within the tiny cubicle, where every movement was trapped within its own delicate cadence. Zim's shaking and shallow breathing, the constant disconnection and deafening bleating of the charging cell as it continually struggled to detect his PAK's presence, and finally, the maelstrom of thoughts colliding within Dib's mind.

He put his talent of overanalyzing to good use, pondering every little detail that had transpired. His prior confliction, however, was a mere afterthought compared to his current state. This time, his thoughts held a peculiar emphasis geared towards helping Zim instead of exploiting him.

The alien had been showing more signs of life, but somehow it did little to reassure Dib. A slight flush had crept into Zim's face over the last hour or so, replacing the chalky hue he had been before, and when the boy reluctantly brushed a hand over his forehead, he was burning to the touch with fever. Despite being wrapped thoroughly in the very same blankets the boy had found upstairs, nothing could seem to quell his violent shivering and even in his sleep, little whimpers of distress occasionally escaped his lips.

Not once during that period of time did it even cross Dib's mind to wander the base again or use any of Zim's current disadvantages to his own benefit. At this point, he was far too busy feeling trapped within his own emotional limbo, consumed with pessimistic speculations about the Irken's condition and fear of the unknown.

What would happen if and when he awakened? How could Zim ever understand Dib's motives when he was presumably clueless to what had happened to him? Did he even know that he had been poisoned? Or was he so shrouded with denial that he couldn't grasp that his life was in very grave danger?

Dib looked down as his shoes dejectedly.  _How had this become my burden to bear?_

What a stupid question. He knew the answer. He had dedicated his entire young life to learning everything he possibly could about Zim; it was only a matter of time before he would get more than he'd bargained for.

It was his own choice to cling to the alien and he knew it was outrageous, selfish, and perhaps even…morally  _wrong_. Zim was not to be trusted. Leaving him to the hands of fate was the rational thing to do, and yet Dib would not allow it. He couldn't live his life in good conscience having done nothing.

_What a goddamned shit show_ , he thought bitterly.

-x-

It was hours still until Zim gave any further indication of consciousness aside from his tremors and occasional muttering. Dib had been sitting on the floor next to him, staring straight ahead and lost in thought, when he detected a vague stirring from the corner of his eye.

Poking out from beneath his heavy head, one of the Irken's long antennae twitched a little, trying to pick up vibrations from around the room.

Apprehensively, Dib pushed himself up onto his feet and made his way to the bedside. Zim's eyes were still screwed shut, but the lids were quivering ever so slightly, as if he were fending off a nightmare.

The boy stood over him, watching as Zim muttered something incomprehensible, his face covered in a light sheen of sweat. Once again, he grazed the Irken's forehead with the back of one hand, fresh worry washing over him when he realized how hot he still was.

A few seconds later, the little Elite began to whine softly and shift in his makeshift bed.

"Zim? Are you awake? Can you hear me?" Dib asked hesitantly.

In the back of his mind, he was fearful of the Irken's reaction to seeing him in his base again and for a split second, he even considered fleeing the room. He simply didn't think the poor alien could take the stress.

Zim, however, didn't seem to see much of anything as his lids slowly rose halfway and revealed glassy, unfocused claret eyes. He blinked tiredly for a moment, looking dazed and exhausted. The fact that his life energy was essentially being sucked from him was transparently obvious in his blank countenance and apparent listlessness.

He didn't respond to the boy, nor did he even appear to be aware of his presence, and Dib began to wonder just how much this virus was suppressing his cognitive abilities. Zim seemed disconnected with reality, as if he had just been lobotomized.

Part of Dib tried to rationalize that his obscenely high fever was likely the culprit, but another part of him began to wonder if his lack of a properly-functioning PAK had anything to do with it. That device was a vital part of his nervous system. The idea of Zim slowly going braindead from his deficiency entered his mind and he felt his worries begin to spark anew.

Zim's little legs shifted a bit beneath his blankets, unseeing gaze still fixed ahead of himself while the boy tried to push the thought away.

Keeping one eye on the tetchy alien, he immediately set to brainstorming what he should do now that the alien was awake, at least in the most rudimentary sense. As if in answer to this question, he suddenly heard a muffled grumbling noise from the Irken's tummy. A brief flicker of pain reached Zim's face and he moaned his displeasure quietly before curling up a bit more, weakly clutching his midriff.

Dib was instantly reminded of this one crucial detail. The IV fluids steadily being fed into his system were proficiently serving their purpose at rehydrating him, but nutrients were a different story. Somewhat deflated, he realized that he didn't know when the alien had last eaten.

Turning in preparation to make his way back upstairs, he shot one last hesitant glance at the Irken just as he broke out into a coughing fit. He didn't really want to leave the room, not while Zim was conscious. The fact that he was so unalert was deeply unsettling and part of Dib was fearful that he may fall back asleep and never awaken.

Nevertheless, he reluctantly found himself walking back to the elevator, somewhat relieved at having an excuse to leave the little room for a couple of minutes. As he rose to the main level, he was immediately hit with blinding light from up above. He had spent far too long in Zim's private catacombs, surrounded by the shadowy, low-lit interior of the base's underbelly. The combination of sun and florescent lighting in the kitchen was unbearably bright by comparison.

Once he had adjusted his eyes, the first thing he saw was Zim's robot. Dib had almost forgotten about his presence entirely. GIR was in the living room, staring intently at the television, as if completely unaware of what was going on mere rooms away.

At the sound of Dib's arrival, however, the SIR unit perked his head up a little in acknowledgement.

"Hiya! Ya wanna watch TV?" Then, in a childishly impish whisper, "I's watchin' the Moose Network…"

"Uhhh, no thanks. Actually, I need you to tell me where Zim keeps his food. Do you know?" He asked the question slowly and carefully, as if addressing a toddler.

"…In the kitchen," GIR replied simply, in an obvious mockery of Dib's tone. He hopped off the couch and walked towards the refrigerator, smiling sweetly and gesturing to it as if he was Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.

Feeling somewhat stupid, Dib grumbled something under his breath and brushed past the robot. He was so out of his element, he couldn't even remember basic know-how.

The first thing he saw upon opening the fridge was a surfeit of brightly colored packages, as if someone had been on a mission to collect as much processed, artificially-flavored junk food as possible. The freezer, as well, was nearly filled to the to the top with boxes of frozen taquitos, Drumstick ice cream cones, chicken nuggets, and nearly anything else that one may find in the frozen food section of a grocery store.

Taking up little more than a third of the space were a small cluster of burgundy containers, stacked one on top of another and varying in size and shape. Lifting one off the top of the shelf and lightly shaking its contents, Dib noted the familiar black Irken symbol emblazoned on the front of it.

Military food rations, he concluded. They were separated from everything else almost anally, and most certainly by Zim, to indicate that they were off-limits to his little robot. The sight was somewhat bemusing, giving the deranged little house a rather unsettling sense of normalcy that he had always tried to disassociate with the alien.

Shifting from the fridge to the cabinets nearby, he found even more of their hoard. One shelf was devoted entirely to storing enormous, bulk-sized packages of waffle mix and another contained a large box filled with Zim's "Fun Dip" cartons. A few bags of half-opened Cheezos and a full two-liter of Poop Cola were also wedged in there as well.

Finally, he opened the second set of cabinet doors and was immediately met with a stark overabundance of little black Irken insignias decorating almost everything within. Despite appearing similar to the other little containers he had come across, these packages were apparently able to withstand a long shelf life and did not need to be refrigerated.

Dib took one out and examined it closer. It looked like a bag of chips and, upon being lightly shaken, sounded like such as well. After a moment of contemplation, though, he carefully replaced it on the shelf and turned back to the fridge.

He figured that whatever he fed Zim, it should be soft enough to avoid becoming a choking hazard. The little alien was still very much out of it, which was disconcerting in and of itself. He honestly didn't know what he could and couldn't handle.

This time, he reached in and pulled out a tiny carton from the top shelf, apprehensively peeling off the lid to examine its contents. It looked just like pudding and smelled almost sickeningly sweet. Upon getting a rather sarcastic confirmation from the computer that pudding was indeed what he was holding, he shrugged and deemed it acceptable.

Searching the drawers below for a spoon, Dib offhandedly realized that it had been quite a long time since  _he_  had eaten anything, either. Before trekking back down to the medical bay, he snatched a nearly-full bag of Cheezos for himself.

-x-

Upon exiting the lift, the first thing Dib noticed was a soft gleam of glowing cyan light emanating from around the corner, in the cubicle that held Zim.

_That little robot…_

Between the time he had emerged upstairs and finished rifling through Zim's food supply, GIR could have done a world of damage. The last thing he needed was for that thing to make matters worse, and mess with any of the medical equipment that was currently keeping Zim alive.

As he hastily made his way back to the room, however, he was somewhat surprised by the sight he was greeted to. Absolutely nothing looked to be out of place. Zim's IV catheter was still in place, as were his telemetry leads and soft array of blankets.

The only difference was that the alien had broken out in another weak bout of coughing and he had appeared just in time to see the robot comfortingly patting him on the back as he hacked. When he noticed Dib, however, he immediately stopped and stepped off to the side.

Dib walked in quietly and looked it all over nonetheless, convinced that surely the robot had tampered with  _something_. Neither said a word, but the boy snuck a quick sideways glance at GIR between inspecting levels on the IV drip. The little robot just kept eying his master imploringly, crosshatched mouth firmly shut.

He supposed he had just grown accustomed to ignoring Zim's "sidekick", having never really found him to be much of a threat. With his painfully grating little voice and manic personality, GIR had always been more of a nuisance than anything.

Now, though, the SIR unit was strangely lacking in his usual antics. Something in his present demeanor had abruptly shifted; it was somewhat reminiscent to a sort of stoic innocence, like a child gazing upon a gravely ill parent.

Dib quickly averted his eyes and stared off into space. He clutched the pudding cup in one hand as if it were keeping him from falling off the edge of the Earth.

"Mastah's going to be okay?"

The tiny voice broke the silence and caused him to fall out of his brief reverie. Evidently caught off guard, he turned to look at the robot for a moment. GIR just stared back innocently, waiting for the answer.

"Mast—I mean, Zim will be fine," he said eventually. "He just needs to rest." The lie sounded stupid and unconvincing, even to Dib. However, the robot nodded stoically in understanding before allowing his cyan eyes to fall to the floor. The two were quiet for a moment. Then:

"Hey! Pudding time!" GIR pointed jubilantly to the little cup in Dib's hand. He looked puzzled for a moment as he watched him dash out of the room and back upstairs.

He sighed in exasperation and turned his attention to Zim.

The Elite looked slightly more awake, which wasn't really saying much. He was still sunken into his bed, head propped up just slightly as he gazed around himself. Dib walked around to the side and looked down at him.

"Hey, space monster. Time to eat something." He shook the Irken's shoulder a bit and frowned as Zim shrunk away from him.

"Here." He held out a spoonful of wobbling pudding so that it was hovering right in front of the alien's mouth. The Irken's eyelids fluttered and his red eyes briefly peeked out from sunken, dark sockets before shutting again. He shrank away and his zipperlike teeth clenched together tightly, obstinately trying to refuse the food as the boy attempted to pop the spoon into his mouth. This went on for a few minutes, this struggle between the two, before Dib exasperatedly threw up his arms and turned away, scowling.

Despite his best efforts to remain composed, he could feel his patience wearing thin quickly. For all his intelligence and intuition, at the heart of it all, he was still the quintessential fifteen-year-old boy. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He wasn't a doctor and he possessed no natural instincts to care for another living thing. His entire life thus far had been spent fending for himself and scouring the city for sasquatches and ghosts. He was innocently void of any sense of gentleness, instead sliding with ease into a state of blundering awkwardness in his speech and actions. It was an artform that only a teenager could eloquently achieve. And, unsurprisingly, Dib was a master at it.

"Come on!" he muttered deeply, shaking Zim's shoulder again and even going so far as to flick his right antennae with his thumb and middle finger. A weak squeal of pain emitted from the Irken when he did this and Zim instinctively cringed away from the sensation, screwing his eyes shut. It was as if he were trying in vain to escape into himself, diminishing into a state of utter nothingness.

Understanding he'd gone too far with that little move, Dib guiltily withdrew before letting out a big sigh and scrunching his brow in nervous exasperation. He glowered at Zim for a moment, trying to figure out how to get him to eat

After a while, the Irken relaxed again and eventually opened his eyes once more. Taking the opportunity, Dib snatched up the container again. This time, the alien accepted the food, albeit dazedly.

Zim sagged back a little, just barely propped up by the pillows. As he did so, however, his breathing suddenly morphed into what sounded like stifled choking. Dib jumped a bit in alarm and quickly rushed around so that he was now standing behind him. Quickly, he hooked his arms beneath Zim's armpits and rougher than intended, hoisted the alien into a sitting position to try to clear his airway.

Zim cried out feebly at the abrupt action and opened his eyes a little wider. The large magenta orbs searched deliriously around the room, trying to make sense of the blurry objects surrounding him. The thick haze of fever veiled his coherency tremendously, leaving almost nothing to seep through the blockade of his senses save for undeniable biliousness and an aching, overwhelming pain in his very bones.

A twinge of growing uncertainty made its way into Dib's gut. So much for his attempts at avoiding a choking hazard. Zim was about as coherent as a zombie. Nevertheless, he still tried his damnedest to get some more food in him, spending the next several moments poking spoonfuls of pudding into the alien's ajar mouth and jostling his shoulder when he began to doze.

Eventually, the tiny Elite sank back into his pillows and firmly turned his head away, refusing any more. Figuring he had had enough for now, Dib set the mostly empty cup down in reluctant satisfaction and began to change the low IV drip.

His short-lived celebration at getting Zim to eat came to an abrupt end, however, just moments later. After changing the drip, he caught sight of the alien shuddering out of the corner of his eye and inquisitively glanced over at him.

He looked just as queasy and disoriented as he had before, and the boy watched in brief confusion as he reeled in and began to bristle. Then, to his dawning horror, Zim started to dry heave, just hardly at first, but with steadily increasing austerity. Harsh convulsions erupted from his middle and made their way to his throat almost instantly. Quickly, he pressed his lips firmly together and squeezed both eyes shut, contorting his face into a pained grimace.

Dib involuntarily scuttled backwards in alarm. Swiping a wastebasket from the floor beside him, he shoved it beneath Zim's chin just in time for him to spew everything back up into the receptacle. Dib recoiled in repulsion at the sight as the little alien gagged and coughed miserably.

Zim blinked and tried to focus on any one object. His fuzzy brain was trying desperately to find meaning in the barren walls of his medical bay. Somewhere in the back of the mind, he felt the leery, ominous sense of another person in the room, but he was far too stupefied to hone in on this new threat for more than a moment before falling prisoner to another sudden bout of nausea.

The young paranormal investigator came back around and held the wastebasket up again, somberly watching as Zim lurched forward and retched once more. In case it wasn't already evident that he hadn't ingested anything for God knows how long, Dib was able to see it firsthand as the tiny Irken vomited up concrete evidence of his long-empty spooch. Zim moaned loudly into the bucket, causing the awful sound to reverberate throughout the room. A deep frown accompanied the crease in Dib's forehead as bile continued to fill the bottom of the vessel.

Somewhere in the midst of the debacle, he heard metallic little footfalls from behind him. When he turned to glance behind himself, low and behold, there was GIR holding his own cup of pudding and a spoon.

"Ooooh! You's and Master are playin' the bucket game!"

The robot then burst into infernal giggling, the sound colliding with the melody of bleating machines and gagging from the alien. The disturbing cacophony of noise swirled through the air, fueling the fire of Dib's already raging headache and triggering his own fit of nervous tremors. His hands shook violently as he held the wastebasket below the Irken's mouth and tried desperately not to descend into utter madness.

A few moments later, Zim went quiet, having worn himself out. Seemingly finished with his fit of vomiting, he curled into a fetal position on his side and whimpered quietly. Dib's shoulders slumped as fresh defeat crept in.

At that moment, he came to the almost instantaneous conclusion that he truly hated everything about Zim. He hated the vulnerability that seeped from his very being. Hated the lack of fight the scrappy little Irken had always possessed. More than anything, he hated the power that the damned alien always seemed to have over him, even now.

Surely if he hadn't been weighted down with pain, he would be screaming and cursing, aiming at the boy's "enormous" head with any number of the ubiquitous arsenal he kept within the curious entity that was his PAK. He would be a different kind of difficult, a force of stubbornness and vehemence that shouldn't logically exist for anyone his size.

Inexplicably, he would do anything to have  _that_  Zim here. This wasn't his alien. This was some horrible mockery of him; a tasteless caricature. There was no honor in seeing another being slowly become extinguished of their lifeforce, left to struggle in agony. There was no joy or pleasure in seeing even his greatest enemy suffer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Irken's aggrieved shaking subdued and he melted back into the pillows, exhausted. Dib immediately started to shake him to get his attention.

"Zim! Zim? You need to talk to me. Tell me how I can help!"

"Hnnnnggggg," he moaned, his head lolling and limbs going slack as he returned dutifully to his comfortable state of unconsciousness. Spittle dribbled down his chin and his tongue had begun to poke out again. Dib hesitantly moved his hand to his forehead and stared at him desolately as he slumped back into the quilt. His face was sweaty and hot.

Frustration quickly melted into anxiety and he could feel himself shaking as it shored up within him.

_This is out of my realm, this is out of my realm! I don't know what to do!_  He felt his pulse beat hard through him as he turned away from the Irken.  _I-I can't do this myself!_

The stress continued to swell up in his chest and he abruptly straightened up and stalked right out of the room, pushing GIR out of the way as he left.

Dib immediately began pacing around the main room of the medical bay, too overwhelmed to do anything but wring his hands like a ninny and stare beseechingly at the floor.

"What the hell do I do?" he squeaked to nobody in particular, bringing two shaky hands to his temples.

He was immediately startled when his bad habit of talking to himself actually elicited an unexpected response from the ever-present computer.

"If Zim is unable to keep anything down, he will require a feeding tube. Expiration will be inevitable without some form of nutrition," the computer stated blandly.

He froze, at a loss for a moment, before finding the words to respond.

"And how to I do that?"

"It will involve inserting a tube into the abdomen, right above—"

"No! Absolutely not!" he suddenly burst out, cutting off the computer's next words. He drew his line there. He was  _not_  performing surgery on Zim. He wasn't a doctor!

His next words tumbled almost incoherently out of his mouth as he began pacing back and forth again. "Look, maybe the charging thing he's hooked up to will cure him before it comes to that."

The computer paused a bit before replying, as if taken aback. "The manual charging cell will not 'cure' him. Its only purpose is to stabilize and maintain the PAK's most basic functions until a medical specialist can be consulted. Host may regain some cognition as a result, but it is not a permanent solution."

Dib expected to feel some sort of deep-seated panic well up in his chest, or at least more frustration. He already felt as though he was on the verge of a breakdown. Instead, a strange numbness passed over him unexpectedly, as though his sanity could no longer handle all the bad news and had suddenly taken to blocking it all out.

"Excuse me?" he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Irken medical planet Elixus has the greatest probability of successful treatment for Irken PAK deficiencies," the computer stated after a moment.

Vaguely, Dib could sense a monitor being lowered down in front of him, at perfect eye-level. Lost in disbelief, he stared dazedly at what appeared to be map of the planet, in some area called the "Vexer solar system".

That was all it took to snap him out of his spell and immediately burst into protest.

"I CAN'T TAKE ZIM TO A WHOLE OTHER PLANET!" he shouted, shoving the computer monitor away. "That's out of the question! I-I can't!"

"Without medical attention from a trained Irken PAK specialist, expiration will be inevitable," it stated simply.

_Expiration inevitable! Expiration inevitable!_  That's all the damned thing could ever say!

Dib stammered for a moment, both hands gripping his temples as he fought for a rebuttal; he was at a loss. He wanted to argue with the computer, tell it just how much resolve it had taken him to merely walk the four blocks to Zim's house to help him; there was no way he could go to this length to save a destructive space-bug.

The deep voice from above merely repeated what it had said before, a bit more bluntly for the dimwitted human. "Without proper medical treatment, Zim will die within the week."

His breath hitched in his throat as he stubbornly held back tears. The harsh words were spoken in a tone so condescending, he could hardly control the surge of indignant anger he felt flow through his veins.

_He couldn't do that! Couldn't leave his family and skool for an indefinite amount of time to fly Zim to some unknown planet. He could count on one hand just how many times he had piloted a damn spaceship, for God's sake!_

He didn't respond the computer this time, opting instead to hold onto the wall to keep himself up. Swallowing thickly, he allowed his eyes to go glazed from behind his spectacles as this new information slowly set in. From the corner of his eye, he saw the crooked monitor screen retract back into the rafters up above, as though even the computer had officially given up trying to help a hopeless case like him.

He stood there for a while, eventually shaken from his trance when he heard the unmistakable sound of GIR's little feet pattering out of the other room. The little robot didn't even bother to acknowledge him as he quickly scurried to the elevator, babbling some nonsense about how he was going to miss the next episode of the Scary Monkey Show.

After a few moments of newfound silence, he numbly walked back into Zim's cubicle. The Irken was still asleep. His little chest rose up and down uneasily and his face, blanched and pale after puking up his guts, wore a very faint frown.

The scythe-haired boy sighed. Yes, the alien's lifeclock hadn't bottomed out, but his body and mind still weren't functioning properly without the full efficiency of his PAK. How could he not have realized this before? That merely hooking Zim up to an enormous machine that served only as an auxiliary life support system would not 'fix' him.

He hadn't seen Zim in such a washed-out, feeble state since one isolated incident back in elementary skool, when he had stolen the precious life-giving contraption from him in a fit of brash, childish ignorance. The boy had quickly learned the importance of the object and its repercussions. It was the very entity that kept the alien alive, stored his memories, and retained his personality. The PAK essentially  _was_  Zim.

Neither of them had ever spoken of that debacle since that day it occurred, and Dib had eyed the metal dome with more than a little curiosity since then. He understood the basic gist of what it did, but that was it. Nothing more and nothing less. He could make theories on its properties, of course, but none of them were grounded on fact.

It didn't mean that he could truly help Zim if he was afflicted with something that went beyond human comprehension.

He considered this as his gaze dropped to his feet. Less than a foot away was the tangle of PAK legs cascading down the side of the bed. They now lay like decrepit scaffolding beside him, morbid indications of Zim's true condition.

Reaching down, Dib tentatively lifted one of the appendages trailing on the floor beside him and gazed down at it, a sort of melancholy he had never once felt towards his self-proclaimed nemesis bubbling deep in his chest. He had witnessed the appearance of those metal limbs many times, bursting out of the alien's PAK during their fights. Zim meant business when he deployed those; they gave him height, power, and most importantly, an upper hand. And when he was finished utilizing them to his advantage, Dib would watch them disappear back into the PAK with perfunctory ease. Blink and you'd miss it.

Turning the single metal strut in his hands, the boy thought about how he had seen them collapse from beneath the little alien when he had panicked in his lab. As if it couldn't support his tiny, trembling frame. With so much else on his mind, he had just assumed that they would eventually retract once Zim regained consciousness. Now, he began to fear that they would never make it back in on their own. Zim's organic brain and PAK simply couldn't communicate that order to one another.

Dib set the limb down again and buried his head in his hands as he slipped to the floor once more and hugged his knees to his chest.

-x-

The boy must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up, his back ached and dried tears stained his face. From beside him, the tiny, blanket-bundled form shifted and mumbled something in the same harsh language Dib had witnessed him speaking before with the other Irkens.

Gloomily, he rose from his spot and stretched his back before walking closer to examine him. His face was locked into a vague grimace and his lips were trembling as they uttered half-conscious laments and animalistic grunts. He looked so…small. So completely absent of his typical arrogant façade. His closed eyes were rimmed heavily with dark, bruise-like circles and he looked like death incarnate.

Sighing, Dib wiped the alien's face and checked his temperature again with the back of his hand. Nothing had improved. Nothing  _would_  unless he sought outside intervention.

Walking almost silently into the main wing of the medical bay, Dib let loose an enormous sigh. "Computer. Pull up the coordinates for this 'Irken medical planet'."


	13. Of Bittersweet Nostalgia and the Invader's Guide to Bounty Hunting

Daybreak burst across the sky in a sea of reds and yellows as the sun languidly made its appearance over the town graveyard. A nip of cold still lingered, but it added a unique crispness to the air that almost seemed to declare impending vitality in the coming days.

Deep within the mass of grave markers and budding springtime grass was a hunched silhouette. He was barely visible, perched on the hill and sitting cross-legged. An unmistakable tuft of thick, black scythe-like hair jutted from his head, ending in a somewhat disheveled point.

Mourning doves cried out with their soulful laments, breaking the silence in the most delicate way possible. Even the wind was gentle, as if it, too, were mindful of the sacred moment it had intruded upon. Dib's head dipped forward, and an ample breath of crisp morning air filled his lungs as his shoulders slumped. He held it for a moment and finally released it in a long, deep sigh.

He was facing a large headstone, wiped clean of moss, grime, and anything else the elements could offer. It gleamed just as it had the day she had been buried.

He had needed a break from the neuroticism and stench of illness that had taken hold of Zim's house. The night before had been its own brand of frustration. Just before the break of dawn, Dib had tried in vain to get some food in Zim's system again, only for the half-conscious Invader to alternate between shrinking away and hissing balefully at him. He still seemed hopelessly out of it, too feverish and delusional to do anything but feebly lash out at what he likely perceived to be some unseen enemy. Every now and then, his husky coughing would give way to a fit of gagging and, a few times, the arrival of more yellow-tinged bile. Dib would vacuously stand beside him, smoothing the thick bases of his antennae back with one shaking hand to prevent them from falling in his face while the Irken doubled over and retched into the little wastebasket.

Dib had seen enough alien barf in the last three days to last him several lifetimes. He swore he could still hear Zim's throaty, congested coughing ringing in his ears. He needed a moment to breathe. More than that, he needed a sanctuary without sick Irkens or manic robots, so that he could reflect on what could potentially be a fatal decision.

Even if they managed to get to this planet intact, who's to say anyone would even be willing to help Zim? Dib knew the gist; the "Invader" was a pariah among his own race. A wanton criminal. What they were about to do was nothing short of a potential death sentence.

But…the alternative was  _certain_  death. If Elixus was their only slim chance at fixing this, then Dib's piquing idealism would inevitably find a way to get the best of him.

The boy, seemingly entranced with the grass and springing dandelions at his feet, eventually looked up at the headstone he was facing. The words KATHLEEN MEMBRANE stared back at him, embossed on the front in somber, unceremonious font.

He glanced back down, chest inflating as he inhaled another deep sigh.

He visited this place often. More so than he'd like to admit, especially lately. Dib wasn't religious. It was certainly the last thing on his mind, and the minds of his family members when he was growing up. He didn't know if there was a God, or a heaven, nor had he thought much on the subject. Maybe it was the childlike dreamer inside of him who held onto the hope that the spirit of his mother still existed in some form, though. That, in some way, she was still able to guide him along. He supposed it was wishful thinking, at best. Hell, just turning the idea over in his head sounded rather pathetic. But…well…he wanted to believe.

_Stupid Zim._

Dib clenched his teeth as fresh anger shot up from his heart and filled his veins like venom.

It would have been better if the damned alien had never come to Earth in the first place. Or if fate absolutely demanded it, it would have been better if Dib had never even associated with him. Why couldn't he just have been stupid enough to believe Zim's pathetic disguise like the rest of humanity?

What should have been a paranormal investigator's dream come true had become the taunting shadow of a nightmare over the years.

Zim was nothing. He was an outcast among his own people, destined to die an unceremonious death in the wake of sheer shame in the eyes of his entire race. He wasn't even good enough for Earth. Rather than a real alien invader, the pitiful human race only received the leftovers of a failed soldier. It was nothing more than a cruel joke…

And yet…Dib felt genuine sorrow build up within him. Zim, the defective Invader wannabe, was the only person left in the universe who saw Dib as he was. The only one who took him seriously, seeing him as a serious threat. Even Zim himself would never earnestly dub the boy insane; rather,  _smart and cunning_. A force to be reckoned with.

And in return, Dib had given Zim exactly what he had yearned for his entire life. He had shown both fear and determination, seeing Zim as the threat he so wanted to be. He had taken the Irken just as seriously and the two had thrived off each other's mutual respect for one another, as surreptitious as it might have been.

Even as the vague recluse Zim had been in recent time, it was still evident he cared. It was clear in his eyes and the way he held himself. When Dib would walk past him in the park, away from the cemetery, the little Irken always straightened up and stared haughtily at him, as if preparing for a skirmish. It was the only time his eyes lit up with anything more than frustration and hot-headed anger.

He cared, and yet he was intimidated. Maybe it was because of Dib's recent growth spurt. Maybe it was because the pale, skinny boy now served as a physical reminder of his failures after  _years_  on this planet. In his scrambled sense of reasoning, it made more sense to just ignore Dib than confront him anymore…

Dib pulled up some grass absentmindedly and snuck another glance at his mother's headstone, melancholy consuming his heart. He didn't really know why he came here so often. It had only gotten worse in recent years, this strange need to visit her.

His earliest recollections of his mother were faint, flittering, and sprinkled with her bell-like laughter. Nostalgia has that special way of leaving lingering bliss in even the most mundane of memories.

Pictures alone preserved that happiness. However, much like that long-forgotten feeling, nearly all of them had been buried out of sight long ago. Only one remained, hidden away in one of Dib's notebooks and unbeknownst to his father and sister. A single photo of the entire family, all beaming with bright-eyed optimism. Gaz had only been a baby at the time and she was half-concealed in a sling strapped to her father's chest. Dib was sitting on his mother's lap while she looked down adoringly at him. His chubby little legs were in the process of kicking out gleefully and he smiled widely from around the blue pacifier in his mouth. It was bittersweet to gaze upon something so long lost, this familial innocence frozen within an old photograph.

Years wore on and the rose-tinted shades had slowly been pulled from Dib's eyes. His mother's cancer had returned with a vengeance, plaguing the rest of his memories of her with pain and confusion. Her once voluminous hair thinned and wilted until, one day, nothing remained. She grew emaciated over time and often spent her days in bed, too weary to even stand on her own.

She still smiled, though. She always smiled, even though it was obvious she was suffering from the disease deeply embedded within. She hugged her babies with thin, practically skeletal arms and turned her eyes lovingly towards her husband with a far away, dreamy look as if she had already entered a different plane of existence. The Professor, though, could only watch the cancer eat away at her until she herself eventually ceased to exist one day.

After her funeral, he threw himself into his work. His first order of business had been to find the cure to cancer. And he succeeded. After three years of extensive research. It had won him his first Nobel Prize and launched him to his current position as one of the most powerful minds on Earth, giving him credibility and fame. It was also the beginning of his workaholic career. To this day, he spent countless hours at his lab, seldom seeing his children, and immersing himself in the delusion that he alone could make the whole godforsaken world a better place.

And Dib…he was left to make sense of the situation at the ripe old age of seven years old. His little sister, simultaneously impressionable and standoffish, sought desperately for a distraction. She picked up video games early on, starting off simple and steadily working her way into a full-blown gaming connoisseur before the age of ten. It gave her an escape from the situation. And Dib supposed that his obsession with the paranormal was his. It was just how his family coped with loss.

Ignore the problem. Hide the evidence. Fling yourself into passion and put on a carefully-placed façade of apathy. Don't cry. That's what his father always said.  _"Don't cry, son. Crying solves nothing."_

And Dib obeyed dutifully. In recent years, though, his walls had slowly crumbled. He found himself at the graveyard more and more often, just sitting in front of his mother's headstone and pondering whatever quandary had been festering in his mind that day. As he grew older, he was beginning to remember less and less of her and it saddened him deeply. He feared that one day, he may even forget her entirely. Sometimes he even pulled out that photo, despite the sharps pangs of melancholy it evoked. Just to see her face. Her gently curled purple hair. Her laugh lines. Her eyes downcast as she beamed proudly at her baby boy. And that's exactly where Dib's eyes always managed to travel as well. To this day, he often tried to recall a time when he had been able to smile the way he had in the picture, so freely and without a care in the world.

_Why did you have to die?_

Dib had never experienced such excruciating pain before; the agony of loss, there to remind him of how temporary every little aspect of life was. Now, though, he felt a peculiar fear build up in his chest; a stabbing feeling of despair that told him he was going to face that very same pain yet again. It manifested itself in the most twisted way; by revealing the source to be none other than he who Dib had vowed to someday vanquish.

Now, he felt desperation build up and a sense of spiraling control as he tried to imagine his days without the person who, for better or for worse, had had the biggest impact on his life thus far. Even if said 'person' was an alien. And even if said alien was his biggest rival.

There was nothing he could do for his mother. There never was. But he  _could_  do something for Zim.

Dib shivered a bit as he concluded this. It was bitter for him to swallow such a harsh truth. Yet he stared up at his mother's grave marker and allowed himself to feel it with all the fervor in his heart. No half-baked revelations or hidden doubts.

_I don't want Zim to die…_

For the first time in almost a month, Dib felt sure of himself. And before his confidence could wane like the remnants of yesterday's night sky, he touched the engraved ridges of his mother's name lightly with his index finger and reveled in that certainty that he was making the right choice.

* * *

Larb was now within proximity of the planet he sought. He gazed laconically at its growing outline through the windshield as he drew nearer and nearer to it.

Earth was small—smaller than Irk, at least—and quite ugly looking. It was blue with strange green splotches and appeared to be on the verge of decay. After seeing his share of enemy planets fall victim to overpopulation and the inhabitant's general stupidity before their annihilation, he could identify the signs surely enough.

A twinge of arrogance crept in and tried to convince Larb that nothing could possibly be worth stepping foot on this useless, backwater planet. The defective may as well have been "assigned" to a toxic waste dump.

He immediately reminded himself that his future depended on the success of this mission. Not only his future serving the Empire, but his future existing within it. He didn't know what methods the Tallest possessed, but he didn't dare question their power. They reveled in their authority and exercised it with casual indifference. It was every Irken's dream to have that kind of control.

Being on the receiving end of it left something of a bitter taste in the midst of his otherwise expected reaction. He was like a well-mannered child who had been disciplined for the very first time. He could only respond with hot-tempered frustration and the sheer belief that he didn't deserve such an indignity. He had conquered Vort for Irk's sake! Single-handedly!

With angered resignation, he turned his attention back to the planet that loomed ahead. His new mission as an unwitting hitman not one he was adequately trained for, and it upset his pride more than anything.

Since the defective's ship was now offline, he had no real way of tracking him. All he could guess was that the little parasite had made it back to his base of operations, which had to be  _somewhere_  on this dirtball.

Standing up quietly from his pilot's chair, he revealed something from the pocket of his bright fuchsia tunic. A SIR Unit's memory drive. The defective's SIR, to be exact. It had been extracted from the dull-witted robot during their debacle on the desert planet, almost as an afterthought. In hindsight, Larb was quite satisfied with his ultimate decision. It was an Invader's trick of the trade; take anything that could potentially lead to valuable information or intelligence. And in a bizarre twist of fate, this particular situation involved stealing remnants from his own race—exploiting one of its few weaknesses.

For a while, the development of the SIRs had caused a certain amount of controversy following their introduction. Yes, they held a distinct and valuable purpose; to gather information and assist their Irken proprietors in any way that would benefit their respective missions. It was a smart form of ensuring a planets demise. Creatures of flesh and blood were often forgetful while these robots were specially designed to be hardy, intelligent, and lethal.

At the same time, though, they could also single-handedly destroy an Invader's cover if they were to fall into the wrong hands. They essentially held all information gathered by their Irken master, making capture by an enemy force extremely dangerous. It could give away an entire ploy, and subsequently reveal the presence of the Empire to outside species.

Larb hoped that the information on the memory drive could give him leads to tracking the defective's location on this pitiful excuse for a planet. Popping it into a slot on his dashboard, he watched stoically as the computer read it and accessed GIR's memories. They appeared on a screen in front of him, one by one, starting from the most recent that had downloaded.

Through GIR's eyes, Larb boredly watched his own snakelike expression come into view immediately before deactivating the SIR back on the desert planet. Beyond that, though, he could only discern an endless sea of complete twaddle. The defective's angry face as he yelled at the robot. Strange, pink creatures with odd appendages jutting out from the middle of their faces and on the sides of their heads. A bizarre, green house wedged awkwardly between two larger buildings at the end of a cul-de-sac. And a boy. He saw this boy appear a lot.

Unlike the other strange pink Earth creatures, though, this one appeared keenly self-aware. He had a long black coat and strange, jagged hair. His eyes were almost comically amplified behind two round pieces of glass that covered his face (whatever that contraption was, it looked absolutely primitive).

Larb watched with faint bemusement as the defective and the weird Earthenoid chased each other around, engaged in battles, and taunted one another back and forth. As he flipped through memories impatiently, he saw the Earth creature grow smaller and smaller until he and the defective were the same size.

_So this is what the defective has been wasting his time on,_  Larb thought with a sneer.  _Frolicking around with this planet's equivalent of a smeet. Pathetic._

He continued browsing through its memory drive, trying to find anything that would be of use to him. Any indication of the defective's location on this planet. He saw lots of Earth creatures, lots of TV, and lots of bizarre, greasy-looking foods. The SIR Unit was about as useful as he would have expected it to be.

Then, as he was flipping through the data, he caught sight of something strange. It was the boy with the black hair. He was standing in the gateway of a metal, rectangular building in front of an Irken Spittle Runner. He and the defective were yelling at each other and quickly resorting to physical combat. The puny, demented voice of the SIR Unit cheered them on, watching as they clawed and punched at each other.

"THAT SHIP IS PROPERTY OF THE IRKEN EMPIRE! RETURN IT AT ONCE!" the defective hollered, before receiving a harsh slap to the face.

"NO WAY! I FOUND IT, SO IT'S MINE!" The Earth thing reeled his arm back to repeat the gesture. Before he could, though, the defective swiftly recovered and flung one clawed hand out, leaving three angry slash marks on his face.

Larb felt a pang of anger shoot up inside him. The defective had let a member of the indigenous species take possession of Irken property!? And he had revealed his identity! There was a reason he hadn't been assigned to a real mission, and the proof was right there! Defectives couldn't be trusted with anything!

"RETURN IT YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF EXCREMENT!" The Irken darted forward and lunged for the ship, about to deploy some sort of weapon, or maybe a shrink ray. Some piece of equipment that had inevitably been purchased with the Empire's monies. Pah.

Before he could succeed, though, the "piece of excrement" in question tackled him to the ground. His PAK hit the dirt first, effectively knocking the wind out of him. While his combatant was standing over him and enjoying his short moment of victory, though, the defective jerkily reared his leg back and roughly kicked him in the groin with the last of his energy.

The boy sank to the ground beside him, and the anticlimactic brawl appeared to come to an end. The two curled up and moaned, mumbling insults at each other as they favored their respective hits, the defective hugging his middle tightly and the Earthenoid clutching the area between his legs.

_How pathetic_ , Larb thought for the shmillionth time, pausing the memory. He had seen more than enough of this disgrace to his Empire.

He hesitated for a moment, though, staring at the faces of the two on the screen, locked in pained grimaces, before letting his crimson eyes waver to the partially-concealed Spittle Runner in the background. He zoomed in on it, and his annoyance quelled a bit as a plan turned over in his mind. Wherever this piece of Irken equipment was located, the Earth creature must be close by…and, therefore, the defective as well. If he could lock onto the signature of the ship, he could find him…

With renewed vigor, Larb cockily flicked a few buttons on his dash and watched as the monitor scanned for Irken vehicles nearby. As to be expected, the outdated Voot failed to pop up. The Spittle Runner, however, appeared almost immediately, coordinates and all. It was still online and fully functional.

Satisfied with his lead, Larb curled his lips into an ugly sneer and steered his ship in in the direction of Dib's home.

* * *

Zim yawned, then shuddered in the midst of the action. He quickly dissolved into yet another coughing fit. When it finished, he opened his red eyes halfway and let his mouth hang ajar while he sucked in deep, ragged breathes. He looked like a fish moments before being gutted.

Dib breezed through the room, walking around him carefully and picking up his backpack off the floor. He hadn't been back at his own home in almost two days, and he needed a shower desperately. He also needed to prepare for his trip.

Just the mere thought of it filled him with a cacophony of dread and anxiety. He had made up his mind the night before that they would be taking Tak's ship, primarily since he didn't have any experience flying Zim's. It was also bigger—big enough to hold two passengers and a fuckton of medical equipment, at least. Even so, Dib had limited experience helming it. He had flown it by himself before, on rare occasions, but other, more leisurely times were spent with Gaz. When he could manage to bribe her, she would give him brief, terse flying lessons while standing over the control panel and staring boredly out the windshield at passing stars.

The idea of embarking on a long mission like this terrified him to his core. If only he could get her to come along…Dib sighed, imagining the conversation that would follow that request. Especially when he explained why the hell he was going on the trip in the first place.

On his way out, he shot a final glance over at Zim. The alien didn't look like he would be going anywhere anytime soon.

Late into the night, the computer had run through options with Dib as far as getting nutrition into Zim's system. The conversation had ended not with a feeding tube, but with the mutual agreement to put the alien on total parenteral nutrition. As the computer explained what it entailed, Dib noticeably relaxed when he learned that he wouldn't be forced to insert a tube into the alien's belly. The nutrients would be administered intravenously and ensure that Zim wouldn't starve to death. The computer had gone on to add that this method would be suitable for him until he could make it to the medical planet.

So now Zim lay in his little bed, dependent on the technology surrounding him for almost every basic function.

Dib brushed absently past GIR as he crossed the threshold, not even acknowledging the robot. So far, he hadn't accidently shut off his master's life-support, nor had he done anything worse than just be a general nuisance. Dib was still relatively apathetic towards the demented little thing, but he had more or less grown to trust him alone with Zim.

* * *

Once Dib left, GIR wandered over to where his master lay. After a brief moment of hesitation, he climbed onto the cot and settled himself on top of Zim's head.

_Master doesn't like it when I sleep here._

But his head was so warm today! And he didn't seem to mind….

Zim's hooded eyes slid closed again and he slipped into a foggy state of delusional fever dreams once again. GIR, in turn, decided to follow suit while he waited for the bigheaded boy to return. He obediently closed his eyes and napped to the rhythm of Zim's heart monitor.

_What Master doesn't know won't hurt him…_

* * *

Dib's father was in the living room, on the phone with someone when he walked in. For a moment, Dib assumed he was in the middle of some conversation regarding his newest study over at the lab, or perhaps in a debate over some groundbreaking scientific discovery.

When he walked in though, he was mildly surprised to hear that  _he_  was the subject of his father's conversation.

"Ah yes! That son of mine shot up like a root almost overnight! Quite the growth spurt! Now just you wait until he fills out; I'll bet he ends just as handsome as his amazing father! One can only hope that by then, he will have seen the light and followed in my footsteps…"

Dib rolled his eyes as he slunk furtively through the living room and towards the pantry. He could still hear his father talking in the other room. He guessed the recipient was some relative, or maybe a coworker. Whatever. Dib had bigger things on his mind.

"Yes, well—who? Gazlene? Ah yes, Gaz! She's doing just fine! Just beat the final boss in Dank Souls if I'm not mistaken…"

Dib rifled through a cupboard of non-perishables, half-listening as he gathered food for his trip. He was somewhat amused to hear his sister's full name. Almost no one called her Gazlene. It was just an unspoken understanding in his aloof little family. It sounded far too much like another name…

He turned his attention back to his task at hand. With a pang of worry, though, he began to wonder just how long he would be gone. What would happen if he were to run out of human food? He grew more and more nervous as he thought about it. His clammy hands continued to shove bags of chips and packages of Top Ramen into his backpack while he tried to gauge the length of this journey. If he ran out of supplies, he didn't know if he would be able to find any more. Slowly starving to death in space wasn't exactly ideal…

Humorlessly, he remembered that he had an almost boundless supply of  _Irken_  food on Tak's ship, leftover from her attempted invasion. They looked exactly like Zim's and were stacked in neat little canisters in the back of the storage compartment. Oh, and they were totally useless to him. At one point, almost immediately after claiming the ship for himself, Dib had opened one of the rations and curiously sampled its contents. Bad idea. The sickeningly sweet, but indiscernible substances inside had wreaked havoc on his body, causing him to spend the next day and a half camped out on his bathroom floor, sicker than he'd been in years. Irken food was clearly not meant for human consumption. After that incident, they'd sat dormant in storage, slowly gathering dust.

Dib's backpack bulged with his hoard as he quickly gathered anything that could be preserved for long periods of time. Boxes of mac and cheese, peanut butter, granola bars…into his bag it went. Just as he was struggling to zip it all up, he noticed something else on the top shelf, right next to Gaz's box of Coco-'Splodies: a large, unopened bottle of vodka.

His father, having entertained quite a few world leaders in his day, had a plentiful supply of liquor; enough to open a fully functional bar in their very household, in fact.

Hesitantly, Dib reached one pale hand forward.

"SON?"

Spooked, he wrenched it back in. "YEAH DAD?" he called back, his voice cracking a little. For a split second, he was worried he had been caught red-handed. He waited for the return of his father's voice.

"I must get back to the lab! I believe Gaz is still out at the video arcade. There should be dinner in the fridge!"

"O-okay, sounds good!" Dib stammered. He felt a pang of guilt when he realized that he was essentially leaving his family for an untold amount of time without a proper explanation. Oh God, what had he gotten himself into?

As soon as he heard the front door slam, he hastily snatched the vodka bottle by the neck and shoved it into his bag before he could think too much about it.

After relentlessly yanking the zipper closed on his overloaded backpack, Dib scurried upstairs to collect more items into a smaller, overnight bag.

Laptop. Spare clothes. Earbuds? Would he need these? No! Only pack the essentials. Dib glanced around nervously, wondering how Zim was fairing back at his base. He was in the midst of grabbing an extra pair of socks when he heard a sudden crash.

No. It was more than a crash. It felt like a goddamned earthquake. Dib was promptly knocked to his knees as the entire house shook beneath him. He could hear glass shattering from the floor below and several photos tumble off the walls in the hallway.

_WHAT THE HELL?_

Dib scrambled to grab his overnight bag filled with clothes. His backpack was still securely placed over his shoulders. When he flung open his door, he immediately let out a frightened yelp. Smoke and dust from the drywall flooded into his room as he raced down the stairs, heart pounding.

When he reached the bottom, he stopped dead in his tracks. His heart lurched in his chest as he took in the sight before him.

Where his front door had stood just seconds ago was now an enormous, gaping hole. Torn wires and insulation oozed out of the obliterated walls like pus from a wound. Thick trails of black smoke immediately found their way into Dib's lungs and his eyes watered and stung. He coughed harshly and staggered forward a bit, trying to see past the haze.

The smoke dissipated, little by little, and he could eventually make out a figure looming no more than twenty feet away from him. Then, as he realized what he was looking at, his burning eyes turned to the size of saucers and his knees nearly buckled from beneath him.

Standing in the midst of the wreckage was the silhouette of an Irken, bolstered up on PAK legs and standing slightly taller than Zim. It was wielding an object in one gloved hand; something that glowed and pulsated like some sort of demonic searchlight. And as it slowly sharpened into focus, Dib found himself staring right into the barrel of a loaded plasma gun.


	14. Of Dumb Luck and Dire Repercussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I realize I don't usually include author's notes on this platform. I always add them when I post on FFN, but frequently cut them out here. I wanted to include one this time, though, since I know a lot of my dear Tumblr followers prefer to read on ao3. And I would like for them to know that I dedicate this chapter to anyone who has shown me support over there! Tumblr has given me the opportunity over the past several months to get to know my readers on a larger scale, share the love of IZ art and literature, and torture the world through my various shenanigans (under the username apocalypticwaffles, no less.) Thank you so much for being part of the ride, supporting me and this story, and more than anything, playing a vital role in helping me reconnect with something that I love. It truly means the world.
> 
> Enjoy this latest installment, and remember, don't forget to show this little story some love in the comments! It means the absolute world to me and helps immensely with motivation. Until next time, adieu!

Dib's muscles went rigid as the scene before him unveiled itself in the form of wafting dust from his drywall. In that moment, he was utterly paralyzed in fear.

Still aiming the gun at his chest, the Irken slowly lowered himself down to the ground on his PAK legs. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the metal appendages rose back up, surrounding Dib from four different sides with lethal, razor sharp tips that expertly pointed themselves directly at his neck.

Dib kept his eyes pinned on the plasma gun, caught somewhere between crippling shock and the terror that compelled one to initiate their fight or flight instincts. His heart thrashed in his chest, as if trying to beat its way out, while his mind sluggishly worked through the fear that held his fragile rationality in its grip. Slowly, without so much as turning his head, he glanced over the Irken's shoulder, towards the gaping hole that was once his front door.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," the Irken spoke, blue electricity igniting the tips of the PAK legs poised just inches from Dib's throat. His voice was unpleasantly high and nasally.

"If you know what is good for you, you'll tell me where your little friend is hiding out."

The spider legs closed in on Dib just by a hair, prompting his escalating heartrate to surge impossibly faster.

A little voice in the back of his head screamed at him to run; to find an opening and make his move. His feet stayed concreted to the carpet for another moment while he fought to make sense of it. Then, as if every instinct honed in his years fighting Zim had come flooding back to him, Dib snapped out of it.

He nimbly ducked down to the ground, away from the PAK legs, and quickly rolled onto his side just in time to miss a blast from the gun his attacker wielded.

Once freed from the weapon's aim, he jumped to his feet and dashed to the doorway in pursuit of the world beyond. Behind him, he heard a blast from the gun, and its lethal contents whizzed by his face in the blink of an eye. An explosion of drywall burst before him as it made contact with the side of the house, temporarily blinding Dib with dust and almost knocking him off balance.

He scrambled away from the source of the blast and continued lurching towards the threshold. His bulging backpack slowed him down a bit and he could feel his heavy overnight bag slip from his clammy fingers with each jolting footfall.

As soon as he made his way into the bright, almost blinding sunshine and turned the corner to the other side of his house, he realized he had no plan. What was he supposed to do? Run back to the base? Lead this psychopath straight to Zim?

As he was searching through the limited possibilities in his mind, he heard the very familiar sound of PAK legs engaging behind him. He had heard it a million times, from a million different angles. Only now was he realizing just how often Zim had bluffed when he used those against Dib; for  _this_  Irken seemed to see no repercussion in annihilating him if he didn't obey. Also unlike Zim, it was increasingly obvious that he didn't care if he was spotted in his true form. Dib's heart dropped to his stomach. He took off running down the thin strip of walkway nestled between his house and the neighbors'.

The sound of encroaching PAK legs only grew behind him, ominous in their metallic scuffling. Just as he turned the corner to his backyard, in the direction of the adjoined garage that held Tak's ship, he felt something thin and metal wrap around his left ankle and jerk with alarming austerity.

An explosion of pain erupted from the area and he toppled to the ground, his glasses flying off his face and landing elsewhere in the grass.

He landed with a grunt as his knees hit the ground and briefly skidded along the sod. The PAK leg snaked its way back as its owner approached. Dib's face, twisted into a tight grimace, fell in an instant as he opened his eyes—eyes that could see nothing beyond a five-foot radius.

_Oh God, oh God._  He was half-blind without his glasses. He blinked a few times in vain, only to see a pale green blur standing over him. He tried to get up, but immediately fell back down with a yelp as fiery hot pain began to course through his entire leg, right where one of the heinous metal struts had tripped him.

Slowly, said appendage dipped downwards, the tip sparking blue once again. It lowered over Dib's throat, hovering above his jugular. He felt the heat rise, burning his skin without so much as making direct contact.

"I'm giving you one last chance to cooperate. If you don't, I'll be forced to kill you and extract the information from your pathetic brain meats instead. Now where is the Irken Zim?"

Dib struggled, the petrified expression returning to his face. "I-I don't—" he stammered.

The Irken growled. From his fuzzy gaze, Dib could see one corner of his mouth lift into a sadistic, zipper-toothed smirk.

"Very well, then!"

The tip raised a bit, heating up even further in preparation to extinguish the life from the human boy in one fell swoop.

Dib clenched his eyes shut, grit his teeth, and waited for the onslaught. For the sound of his own screaming before the blood poured from his throat and he doomed everyone. Doomed himself by being so shortsighted in everything but his own qualms. Doomed the Earth by meddling with Irken affairs and leading this monster straight to his planet. Doomed Zim in his abandonment…

Suddenly he heard it. Horrid shrieking erupted through the air, quickly followed by the sensation of something wet spreading across his body and saturating his shirt.

He felt as though he were trapped in an out of body experience, seeing his own downfall from far beyond, off in some other realm.

Wailing screams continued to pierce the air, relenting only to suck in another strangled breath. He waited for the pain to hit him next. It didn't. He waited a second longer. It still didn't. Something else was off, too. This wasn't  _his_  screaming.

Reluctantly, Dib cracked one eye open, only to see the Irken a few feet away from him, writhing on the grass in agony. His tunic was soaking wet and the flesh on his exposed skin was beginning to suppurate as tiny billows of steam rose up in the air.

He looked down at his own shirt, equally drenched and sticking to his chest. But it wasn't wet with blood. It took a moment before he realized what was happening.

_The sprinklers_ …

They went off around this time every day…

Dib's mind suddenly switched from despairing solemnity in the face of death to an uncharacteristically goofy brand of euphoria in an instant. He wanted to celebrate. Wanted to fall back into the wet blades of grass and laugh his happy ass off until he couldn't breathe. Luck didn't favor him often. In fact he couldn't remember the last time it  _ever_  had.

But he didn't laugh, nor did he even crack a smile. He didn't have time. Sodden with sprinkler water, Dib groped around until he found his glasses a few feet away. He just narrowly avoided poking his eyes out as he threw them over his face, snatched up his overnight bag, and booked it to the garage once again.

Something was horribly wrong with his ankle; tears squeezed out of Dib's eyes with every bit of pressure he forced on it. Each step caused searing pain to shore up to almost unbearable levels. He had to keep running, though. Had to get to Tak's ship.

Throwing up the garage door and clumsily swiping the tarp off it, he glanced behind him once more to make sure that he wasn't being followed. He wasn't.

He piled in after his two impossibly heavy, waterlogged bags and anxiously started up the ship. It had been an embarrassingly long time since he had driven it by himself, and he struggled to maneuver it out of the garage before he caught the whole building on fire. As soon as he managed it, though, the ship whirred in faint protest and rose shakily into the air. So far so good.

He could see an aerial view of his neighborhood now. On the ground below, he caught sight of the Irken lurching towards the bushes in an attempt to escape the unexpected onslaught of acidic pain the sprinklers continued to rain down upon him.

Dib had but one option. He had to get back to the base. He had to get Zim out of here.

* * *

In the darkness of the medical bay, GIR was sitting on the floor, propped up against the sickbed and lightly humming to himself. Beside him hung Zim's unsprung PAK legs, slightly tangled up within each other and trailing down to the ground in a callous heap.

He picked one up began playing with it, listening to the metallic, tinkling noise it made as it bumped against the others. Almost like windchimes. Or music. GIR's humming suddenly morphed into full blown singing, in a painfully off-key tune no less, as he rattled the limbs together and tried to harmonize to the noise they produced. His attempts at a melody reverberated off the metal walls of the cubicle and echoed off into the hallway. It sounded absolutely demented.

Growing bored of this after a few moments, he climbed up onto the bed and peered at Zim's face. Even in slumber, he looked faintly aggrieved and wracked with tremors. Like he was having a nightmare. Or maybe he was cold. Or perhaps his tummy still hurt…

GIR sympathetically patted him on the head, right between his antennae. At the sensation, the delicate feelers automatically peeled back then slowly bobbed up slightly when he moved his hand away. Zim stirred uncomfortably in his sleep.

He began to wonder when Mary was coming back. Master wasn't much company. In fact, he was even more boring now than when he was hunkered down in his lab working. At least when he was doing that, he would still occasionally take the time to pace around and yell out orders, demanding some little errand or a piece of equipment…or a snack. Mmmm. Snacks sounded pretty good right now…

GIR hopped up, already dead set on running upstairs to raid the fridge. Before he could even cross the threshold, though, he smacked headfirst into someone charging full speed into the room.

"GIR! GIR, I need your help!"

The little robot sprawled roughly onto his back from the blow, making a metallic pinging noise that echoed throughout the med bay. He recovered remarkably fast, though, and leapt to his feet at the sound of his name.

Dib leaned against the wall for a moment, gasping for air before he continued. His clothes were still wet, and he had dirt smeared across his left cheek. GIR watched in silence as he made his way to the other end of the room, limping badly, and began meddling with the monitors by Zim's side.

"H-hurry, we don't have much time and…I-I need you to grab Zim's medical equipment and get him to the ship b-before we're found and—"

Dib paused again, breathing heavily. One of the lenses on his glasses were cracked, leaving spindly, spiderlike veins across the surface and vaguely obscuring the vision in his right eye. He was evidently spooked, and barely coherent.

His jumble of demands was immediately lost on the robot, who continued to gawk at him inquisitively from the doorway. "Whuuu?"

Dib felt his heart jump in his chest as a fresh wave of anxiety wracked its way through him.

He tried again, this time attempting to push down the growing plethora of dread and hysteria that was welling up inside him so he could form a proper sentence

"GIR. Listen carefully. I need you to help me take Zim's equipment and load it in the ship. We have to get out of here NOW! D-do you understand?"

He almost choked on the last words, and fretfully turned to look over his shoulder. He swore that he could hear his pursuer, ready to burst into the base and annihilate them all in an instant.

When he turned back around, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the close proximity GIR had silently created in just a split second. He was standing directly in front of him, the cyan blue ports on his body lit up to a vibrant and rather malicious looking crimson.

"Yes, Sir!" His right arm was bent stiffly into a salute.

Dib stared at him for a beat. The worried crease in his brow quickly vanished, replaced by an oddly dumbstruck expression. But like everything else, he simply didn't have time to question it.

Instead, he nodded curtly, stunned silent, and numbly busied himself with hastily gathering their most vital belongings while GIR obediently followed suit.

* * *

A flurry of voices and shuffling surrounded the sick Irken, coming at him from all angles and mingling unpleasantly with an already perpetual state of unease.

He didn't remember where he was, nor how he'd gotten there. He simply continued to flitter in and out of consciousness, alternating between feeling physically miserable when he was awake and being plagued with fleeting, repetitive nightmares when he wasn't. It was like an accursed carousel that never ceased.

Now, though, the disruption in the ambience was enough to rouse him vaguely from his current onslaught of woozy fever dreams and his antennae twitched faintly as they picked up on the vibrations around him.

Heavy eyelids followed next, raising just high enough for him to see his world; dim and clouded as though he had woken up in the dark. He may as well have kept them shut. Dull pain hit him from all angles as he awoke. His spooch was upset, his chest ached from coughing, and every weak breath he pulled in was an agony all its own. He almost instantly began rocking back and forth in his nest of blankets in an innocent effort to distract his mind from it all.

Something was very wrong; muted beeping and ringing noises were assaulting his antennae and he smelt a revolting mixture of vomit, plastic, and the Lysol disinfectant spray he used in the subterranean levels of his base. And…and something else. Like sweat masked behind the stench of cheap, drugstore cologne. Every time he awoke, he experienced these unpleasant sensations anew.

However, this time, he also heard voices. Like everything else, though, these sounded clouded and stifled; as if he were in a crowded ballroom of people, encircled by muffled conversations. His groggy mind simply couldn't keep up with it all.

The voices were accompanied by vague, jittery movements in the air and rushing footsteps that surrounded him and then dissipated out of hearing range repeatedly.

It wasn't right. Nothing about this was right.

Eventually, he felt something new. A slight tugging at his wrist. Then, shortly after, a strong pair of hands that attempted to lift him into a sitting position.

Somewhere in his imaginary world of haze and listlessness, a dim flame of fright began to take hold. It was as though his reptilian brain was making up for what his cognizant mind now lacked.

He forced his eyes open wider, seeing the silhouette of a person standing before him, waving a hand over his face and trying to rouse his attention. The only feature that stood out was an odd scythe-shaped lock of hair that bobbed crookedly atop his head.

Dim recognition, in the loosest sense of the word, dawned on Zim, followed by a jolt of belated perturbation. For this being, too, had melded in with his nightmares on occasion. His understanding of consciousness and unconsciousness, both purgatories in and of themselves, suddenly melded and frayed around the edges in their delicate states of being. They clashed into one another and left his mind adrift with aimless terror.

Something in his right antennae began beeping faster and faster, louder and louder. Frantically. His heart monitor as panic shored up inside him.

The hands that had tried to lift him paused for a moment, and then released him again. Zim felt a new kind of tugging at his chest, then the bothersome noise ceased completely as he disconnected with the monitor.

"Come on Zim, I know you're having a hard time and all, but I  _really_  need you to work with me here."

He heard the voice, so oddly familiar, try to penetrate his wall of delusion. The hands were back, lifting up his limp, heavy body. Zim tried to withdraw, parting his lips just enough to release a strangled, weak hiss of distress.

When he opened his eyes again, though, he simply saw the same shape standing before him, unshaken by his warning signs.

"I need you to stand up and walk with me to the ship. Then you can fucking sleep again, okay!?"

The silhouette warbled and faded in and out in his delirium. Try as he might, Zim simply couldn't place this being or its significance—only that it surely must be a harbinger of doom, materializing there to taunt him. Some piece in the fabric of his existence that had wrought with it only conflict.

He suddenly felt his body fall back into the pillows for a second time as he was practically tossed into his nest of blankets. He heard an exasperated huff, followed by the sound of disappearing footfalls.

A few brief moments passed in which he almost drifted off again before the same process started up again. This time, though, he felt himself being roughly jerked upright by a strategically placed arm beneath his back while another wormed its way under his knees.

He was crudely lifted up and moved elsewhere, still tangled up in his blankets. He was queasy again, and impossibly exhausted. Another beat and he was resting on some sort of hard surface. Paired with it was the strangest sensation of floating that managed to calm his nerves and prompt him to start dozing once more.

The last thing he felt before slipping back into unconsciousness was the sound of muffled yelling, wind whipping past his face, and doors slamming behind him. It all felt like nothing more than white noise at this point, though. The meaning of it was left to his dreams to decipher.

* * *

Dib scurried up to the main level, strange cargo in tow on something most aptly resembling a hovering gurney. It was circular and rather simple in design, levitating about a foot off the ground. Zim's PAK legs, the only objects that weren't heavily shrouded with blankets, jutted from either side of it and skidded lightly along the linoleum floor.

He needed to get out of here. He was almost there…

Just as he was about to cross the threshold of the door, however, the computer's vocal interface unexpectedly rose up from above.

"Before lockdown orders can be initiated, all data taken from biological lifeform must be transferred to the Irken Control Brains as per protocol."

"What?" Dib panted. He didn't have time for the computer's weird jargon right now!

"Zim's medical records. They must be sent to Irken authorities."

"Okay, fine! Whatever! I don't care. Just make sure nobody enters the base."

He didn't wait around for the computer's response, instead opting to burst out into the light of day and leave the bizarre house behind without a second glance.

Seconds later, and the sound of an engine puttered to life. A few more moments still, and eventually, the base was nothing more than a speck in the distance as they hurtled off into space.

* * *

Nothing could compare to the sheer amount of humiliation that had befallen the once acclaimed Invader. Not the snare he had found himself caught in by his very own Almighty Tallest, nor his prior failure on an unnamed desert planet not long after. Not even the blistering pain that spread across his entire form and left his PAK whining as it tried to repair the tissue could compare to the knowledge that he had been bested by something so simple-minded as an Earth smeet.

One moment he had been bluffing in the face of the strange alien child, and the next he was attacked by an endless onslaught of toxicity. It scalded his skin like acid and left him reeling with its relentlessness.

He must have blacked out from the pain, for when he opened his eyes again, the attack had ceased and he was curled beneath some bushes nearby. His exposed skin was scorched, and the child—along with the ship—was gone.

Larb seethed in rage, let a few expletives in his own dialect tumble out of his mouth, and shakily staggered to his feet.

He had to find this human. He was perhaps the only link to the defective he had on this worthless backwater planet.

Beelining to the direction of his ship, Larb began to cringe in pain at his sudden movements. His uniform was still soaked and it had caused the tender flesh beneath to blister and steam.

The first thing he did upon clambering into the ship was quickly pull off his tunic and pants to address the weeping burns he was left with. They marred nearly every inch of his skin, leaving him with splotches of damaged flesh in varying states of severity.

His PAK was working overtime to heal them, steadily releasing a stream of painkillers into his body as it did so. He was beginning to feel the repercussions of it, too; his mind flittered and blurred around the edges as he accessed the monitor screen on his dash. The growing sensation of lethargy threatened to swallow him whole.

Stubbornly, he pushed on.

"Computer, locate all Irken vessels within the proximity."

He waited, fearful that it was already out of range. Then:

"One result shown. Model: Spittle Runner."

"State its occupants…" His voice was beginning to slur somewhat.

"Two lifeforms aboard and one unregistered SIR Unit."

… _Two_ lifeforms?

Larb's mind reeled as he tried to make sense of this. He took a sudden interest to the hologram of the ship before him, his warbled brain finding it oddly mesmerizing. The painkillers may have been doing an adequate job at numbing his physical pain, but they were progressively numbing his judgement as well.

He needed to focus. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he asked another question.

"Would one of these lifeforms happen to be Irken?"

He waited a beat.

"Affirmative."

Excellent. Onto the next course of action.

"Computer, track the sh—"

Suddenly, the display on his dash, of the ship and its coordinates, changed abruptly to an incoming transmission screen. Larb, taken aback by it, simply stared dumbly at the flashing monitor for a moment.

"N-no! Decline call! Track that ship! I don't have time for this!"

Nothing changed, though. The screen continued to flash in his stupefied face, accompanied by a soft ringing that pattered throughout the cockpit of his Zhook.

"Decline call!"

He stood up unsteadily, clinging to the dash with one hand and gripping his wet tunic with the other. The sedatives that were gradually working their way into his bloodstream were making him drowsy and belligerent.

"Unable to compute."

" _Unable to compute_?" he parroted in growing ire. Every passing second meant he was gaining distance between himself and the defective! He needed to track that ship before it fell out of range and his Zhook could no longer pick up its signal.

The screen would not go away. It remained, awaiting his orders to answer the incoming transmission. The irksome beeping continued to blare into his antennae. He didn't have a choice but to slam the button and take the call.  _For the love of Miyuki…_

"WHAAAT?!"

The sight that befell him was that of two stunned faces. They took in his haggard, hysterical appearance, his glazed eyes and naked torso in silence.

Larb's eyes widened to the size of saucers as the two looming figures continued to stare.

He gulped.

"M-my Tallest?"

* * *

After a while, the feeling of blood pumping through Dib's head had simmered down, leaving him exhausted and slumped over in the command chair. He stared vacuously down at the console as his breath whistled in and out, the remnants of a sore throat still lingering from smoke inhalation and overexertion.

An endless assemblage of stars peppered the dark sky ahead, as small and infinite as the grains of sand on a beach. More closed in around the ship, zipping past it fervently and with delicate grace.

Dib had always treasured the sparse moments in his life when he was able to admire space up close, rather than from the mundane confines of his rooftop at home. He wished he were able to appreciate it to its fullest extent now.

Instead, he felt only a dull throbbing in his left ankle, his sore muscles, and the bothersome visual impairment from his busted right lens.

Reluctantly, he scooted back and hitched his leg up to examine whatever the hell had happened to him. A sharp pain ran up his calf as he did so, prompting a soft whimper to hiss its way from between his teeth.

He pulled off his boot to reveal a puffy, swollen ankle that was steadily casting an ugly purple bruise over the side of his foot.

Dib cringed a bit at the sight, then very gently touched the tender area with one finger. He tried pivoting the joint. Despite the flare of pain the movement elicited, he was able to determine that it wasn't broken. Just sprained. Badly.

There was nothing he could do for it. He just had to deal.

He tried to digest all that had just happened in the brief span of time since being ambushed by some insane Irken hitman. His narrow escape, the hasty loading of supplies—Dib hoped to God he hadn't forgotten anything in the rush—and finally, the state of the Spittle Runner's other two occupants. For the last several minutes, the little cockpit had been eerily quiet.

Zim, who was little more than a braindead green lump, was tucked into the back of the ship, in an absurdly tiny space that could only arguably be considered a cabin. As before, he was hooked to various machines, drips, and even a variation of the charging cell he had been attached to back in the med bay. Unlike that one, though, this rendition was nowhere near as large.

Beside him, propped in the corner, was the object Dib had transferred him out on. Just a simplistic, hovering platform that must have acted as the Irken equivalent of a gurney.

Examining it closer now, Dib realized it held a certain level of familiarity. A beat later, and he remembered: he'd been strapped to this very same contraption a few years before by his own sister when they were fleeing Zim's space station.

He let a bitter, somewhat shaky laugh slip. The ugly noise was alarmingly jarring in the silence of the cockpit.

Propping his ankle up on the dashboard, Dib twisted around so he could rifle through his backpack.

He'd taken along his own steel water bottle, filled to the brim with fresh water from the kitchen tap. It sweated just faintly with condensation.

Not far from it, pushed up against the far wall, was an additional supply; a nearly full flat of disposable water bottles he'd found in the back of his pantry. Better to be on the safe side as far as hydration was concerned. His faith in finding fresh water out in the middle of space was naught.

Dib pulled it out and took a lengthy gulp, allowing the cool liquid to dampen his dry throat before screwing the top back on and glancing back out at the passing stars.

He could see his own visage in the windshield, looking worse for wear. His eyes were gaunt and sunken with sleep deprivation and his face was pale. His clothes were disheveled and stained with turf. He absently wiped the dirt smear from his face and frowned a bit.

Then, he noticed something else in the reflection; a tiny robot standing beside him expectantly.

A bit spooked, he pivoted in his chair and turned to face GIR.

"Did I do good?"

Dib blinked. He had almost forgotten about him entirely.

It took a second before the gears began turning in his head and he actually considered the question the robot had asked him.

Heh. Yeah. GIR  _had_  obeyed the orders he was given. Hell, he'd even done that…thing. The one where his ports turned red and he became inexplicably serious for a fleeting moment. Dib had never seen him do that with anyone other than Zim.

And not only that, but after he'd saluted to the human boy and faded back to normal, he'd set to performing the task Dib had asked of him without a single hiccup. It could have been a complete fluke. Or perhaps he had underestimated Zim's obnoxious little henchman.

After all, for the last few days, Dib had generally regarded GIR in the same way a disappointed parent may regard their hopeless fuck-up of a child. His very low expectations of the robot to actually provide him with useful assistance was evident in every action he took to avoid the little menace.

And despite that, GIR still retained an innocent level of trust and affection for him.

Dib turned and fixed his eyes on GIR again, a glint of amusement dancing in his irises.

"Yes, GIR," he replied at last. "You did very well."

The robot squealed shrilly and leapt towards his face, causing him to nearly topple out of the pilot's chair. His stainless-steel water bottle fell to the ground with a loud clang.

"Uhh, yeah," he mumbled as GIR latched onto him in a rather tight, uncomfortable hug.

Dib pried him off after a moment and fished around in his backpack again. He didn't want to waste food when he didn't know how long he'd be gone. But…

"Here."

He handed him a crushed, deflated bag of potato chips.

The robot accepted the gift exuberantly and proceeded to roughly rip the packaging in half, instantly showering the cockpit in a confetti-like burst of sour cream and onion. Then, shooting Dib another dopey smile, he launched into an extensive scavenging venture along the floor, stuffing handfuls of crisps into his mouth.

The boy returned the grin half-heartedly and turned back around to gaze at the passing stars beyond.

As the hours ticked by, he attempted to ignore the aching in his foot and the unpleasant smacking noise of GIR's chewing in favor of withdrawing into his own thoughts. More than anything, he tried to find comfort in his moment of peace. Bad omens of the coming days led him to believe that it would be the last for quite a while.

He couldn't afford to take peace for granted anymore.


	15. Of Arising Tribulations and the Tallest's Parade of Indignities

Considering the two intergalactic leaders had the mindset akin to a pair of dull-witted fraternity brothers, it should come as no surprise that Red and Purple were quite inept in the ways of patience. Quite inept in many respects, as a matter of fact. It mattered not, though.

They were among the few Irkens who had the privilege to flaunt the incredible power that genetics alone had bestowed upon them—height. And with that privilege came the ability to push the boundaries of brashness, indolence, and any other undesirable trait that would besmirch the reputation of a lesser Irken in the eyes of their heavily stringent, militaristic society.

The ship's extensive crew were prime examples of the 'lesser Irkens,' in question and often took the brunt of their leaders' abuse. As a result, time eventually conditioned them to hold their tongues unless spoken to, remain presentable, and carry out their assigned tasks without so much as a single blunder. They took on a submissive stance in the name of self-preservation and therefore made it their collective undertaking to stay under the radar. And given that the two ends of Irken power distance were still forced to mesh in the midst of the spacious control room, it had led to a rather peculiar dynamic between the two parties.

Those who worked aboard the Massive quickly became desensitized to the unpleasant sounds of smacking lips and belches, crinkling snack wrappers, and loud conversations between the two. They kept to themselves and saw no reason to pry in their Tallest's private affairs.

In a strange turn of events, however, the past two weeks had seen an unexpected shift in this unspoken mentality. It left a leery silence that hung heavily in the air and went so far as to distract those who worked aboard into a lingering and inexplicable sense of paranoia in the face of the unknown. Glances were exchanged, shifty eyed gossip spread between crew members on the state of their race's politics.

It was all in the name of their Tallest's inexplicable shift in attitude. Within the last week, a heavy and unexpected hush had fallen over both rulers of Irk, manifesting itself into a reasonable cause for worry. The two had slowly lost their once insatiable obsession with snacking and partying, instead partaking in brooding conduct and private discussions with one another. The lack of explanation for this behavior was what sparked a certain level of fear in their crew members, for seemingly nothing was amiss. No wars, no threats of rebellions… nothing seemed to compute.

Out of the blue, the two had merely fallen into a state of total disengagement. When they did speak to one another, their voices were hushed and unmistakably argumentative, leading to vicious sessions of bickering that only seemed to get more and more intense with each passing day until it was nearly impossible for it to be ignored.

What none of them could have feasibly guessed was the  _source_  of their frustrations: Larb.

Despite allotting the Invader a specific deadline (which hadn't yet arrived, mind you,) neither Tallest was taking well to his lack of communication between them. As far as they were concerned, the job should have been finished promptly and efficiently within a matter of days. Instead, they had endured nearly two weeks of radio silence, made even more troublesome by one outlying factor—Zim's continued survival.

Eventually, the time came when they could take no more and the two sought out documentation of all newly deceased Irkens. The Control Brains routinely updated such information and had it on standby. When they sent out the most recent list, however, Zim's name was not amidst it. His PAK was still functional and he was still harboring a deadly toxin that should have never seen the world outside of the laboratory in which it was created.

This had been the final straw—and reason enough to demand answers from the unwitting little pawn they'd chosen to do their dirty work.

"Send a transmission out to Invader Larb." Purple's voice rang through the air, breaking the silence in the room and startling a few of the technicians in his unexpected amplification.

Nonetheless, they quickly complied. Within seconds, the large screen ahead flickered in accordance to their specified command and began seeking connection with Larb's Zhook Cruiser.

The Tallest stood before the monitor, stoically waiting as the transmission was sent out. For a length of time, waiting was  _all_  they did. It was considered uncouth for a soldier to leave their Tallest in anticipation. Therefore, under the staunch belief that one ring alone should be long enough to summon Larb, both leaders narrowed their eyes in mutual irritation.

When the he finally did answer the call, however, what their eyes beheld was enough to snap their lax positions upright and coerce their previously blasé gaze into that of utter bewilderment.

The Invader greeted his Tallest not with respect, nor with poise, but with a belligerent cry that that conveyed both insanity and unfathomable rage.

"WHAAAT?!"

His hysteria upon answering was enough to rouse even the most seasoned of the Massive's crew into snapping their heads in the direction of the source.

To say he was worse for wear would be an understatement. Large, rash-like patches of blistered flesh blossomed across every square inch of his body, which was displayed quite broadly for all to see. Having cast aside his sopping wet tunic in a hurry, he was left bare-chested and disheveled before the entirety of the ship's technicians and his very own Almighty Tallest.

Given that he was in severe discomfort, his PAK had evidently provided him with pain relief—which in itself possessed a number of unfortunate side-effects that only managed to contribute to his dishonorable appearance. The drugs had left him visibly impaired and it was all too obvious in his demeanor.

Upon identifying the recipients of his outburst, his glazed eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. Almost immediately after, his legs appeared to buckle beneath him and the Irken nearly collapsed to the floor. Gripping the dashboard with both hands, he wrenched himself upwards again and stared meekly into the screen.

Though he seemed to understand the error of his ways, his shoring levels of horror repeatedly clashed with the equally unfaltering grips of dissociation. It continually tried to drown his brain into the murky depths of drunkenness while simultaneously fighting to heal his wounds. All the while, lingering billows of steam floated off his body and began to cloud the camera he was using to communicate with them.

Several uncomfortable seconds passed in silence on both sides of the screen, Larb's glassy stare locked unwaveringly with the peeved countenances of both Tallests. At last, Red cleared his throat and turned to the crew.

"Leave us to speak to our soldier in privacy."

The words possessed a leery sense of growing ire behind their calm nature, enabling the navigators to make haste as they scrambled towards the exit. Once the last one had departed, he returned his eyes to the monitor.

"It has been quite some time since we assigned this very straightforward task to you, Invader Larb. We demand to hear a progress report now."

On the other end of the screen, Larb shrank away at the terse edge to his voice. He paused to collect himself before straightening up again, attempting to sneak in a faint ghost of his old self-assured attitude in spite of his mortification. "Err, of course, sirs. After much time spent pursuing the defective, I have determined—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Purple interrupted, waving both hands out in front of himself. He shot a quick glance at Red.

"Forget that. Just answer this one question: have you or have you not  _completed_  your mission?"

His co-ruler shifted a bit beside him, gazing ominously into the screen.

Larb's face dropped and he began to fidget. "Well, it appears, given recent circumstances, I may req—"

"No excuses. I want to hear a clear-cut answer."

"…No, my Tallest."

The two exchanged glances. Then Red spoke. "Yes. That's what I thought. In fact, that's what we both  _knew_. We examined the latest census from the Control Brains and Zim was  _not_  among the deceased. His PAK is still online. He's still alive. Did you hear that?  _STILL ALIVE!_ "

Both glowered at him once more, trying to gauge his response with shrewd, wolfish eyes. The target of their abuse merely bowed his head reticently. Larb's antennae were pinned so hard against his skull, the little flexes on either end hooked forward beneath his jawline.

"…I understand, My Tallest… If I could only have a second chance to prove to you my worthiness… I-I would be  _forever_  indebted." He looked as he had long ago, at The Great Assigning, when his fate last hung in the balance of his two leaders. They'd had mercy on him then; they'd changed his planet assignment at the last moment, pinballing him into a position of honor once he'd achieved his invasion of it. He wanted to cling to the faint scrap of hope that they'd have the same mercy on him now…

"This  _was_  your second chance, soldier. It was our way of offering you a chance at redemption after your failure on Conventia, and you've only proven to fail us yet again. What is stopping me from discharging you right now? I fully intend on holding true to my promise…"

Larb lowered his head again. Deadline be damned, he had no doubt the Tallest would do just what he had proposed and he would have no say in the matter. Holding on to minuscule scraps of integrity mattered very little to beings who held almost omnipotent power. He merely waited for Red's next words to come, in which he would undoubtedly seal his fate.

For several seconds, there was complete silence on the other end. Then:

"… Once the mission has been completed, alert us immediately."

Larb's left antennae perked up, followed by his head as he raised it in disbelief. "T-t-thank you, my Tallest!" he breathed. "I shall work to absolve the issue at once! I assure you, I will work tirelessly in the name of the Empire to deliver!"

Purple rolled his eyes and crossed both gauntlet-clad arms to his chest.

"Soldier?" Red asked, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up once more. "…Yes?"

"Just remember: you're walking a very thin line."

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. "Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again."

Without another word, Red ended the transmission. Larb's face was instantly replaced with a projection of the Irken military insignia and the two leaders turned their backs to it.

"We must take more drastic measures before this entire debacle implodes in on itself. Larb has proven he cannot be trusted to handle the problem in a timely manner."

Purple glanced up at him inquisitively. "Then why didn't you just put an end to it? You did tell him you ' _would hold true to your promise_.'"

Red rolled his eyes at Purple's mocking tone. "Instilling a bit of fear never hurts. I didn't realize how incompetent he was. I never stopped to consider that he would fail in this mission."

"You didn't? Zim is a walking disaster. If  _we_  couldn't kill him, what made you think  _he_  could have?"

Unable to give him an answer, Red merely shook his head and stared down at the floor. The following silence cast over them like a shroud, achingly unapologetic in its foreboding nature.

Feeling no better about their current situation, the two realized they could only return to what they'd done before; they were destined to continue treading lightly upon illegal grounds while uncertainty and the bitter taste of vulnerability plagued them. Nothing could be spoken of the matter and they would be enraptured in constant paranoia until proof of Zim's death reached them.

It was in the midst of this shared reverie that the two enormous double doors burst open without any forewarning. Both Tallests whipped around, looking somewhat perturbed.

Expecting a rogue crew member who had entered the room again without permission, Red was about to demand they leave. Instead, however, their unexpected visitor turned out to be none other than Rarl Kove, longtime political advisor to the Tallest.

The slight Irken was typically within easy access when his services were required, which wasn't terribly often, and he knew proper etiquette when addressing the Tallest. In fact, he'd been well-conditioned to blend into the woodwork during major affairs, seldom making appearances unless it was necessary to impart important information along to his leaders.

Therefore, his abrupt presence was rather out of character for him, eliciting a ripple of anxiety to pass through both Red and Purple.

Not only that, but he looked utterly spooked. His dull, moss-colored eyes were the size of saucers and both antennae were ramrod straight, little flexes hooked forward and bobbing along with him as he loped down the slightly leveled platform and towards his two superiors. When he was just a foot away, he skidded to a halt and began panting.

"My Tallest." He bowed before them, attempting to wiggle his taught antennae in respect. As soon as he rose back to full height, though, he set that distressed gaze upon them once more.

The two regarded him silently, waiting for him to give his message. The shorter Irken took a few seconds under their scrutiny to catch his breath. When he finally did speak, his hasty words spilled out a bit wheezily.

"T-the Control Brains. They just received an Irken medical d-document from an unnamed…" he took another gulp of breath, "an unnamed planet… It claimed to have identified a case of the Meekrobian J-636 virus. Th-they…" Rarl Kove paused again, covering his mouth with one ungloved fist. He must have run clear across the Massive at breakneck speed.

"They  _what_?!" Red demanded. Beside him, Purple took a step back, mouth falling ajar.

"They… they are prepared to announce war with Meekrob as soon as you give the word."

Letting the fateful words finally slip, the advisor timorously stared at both rulers, awaiting their reaction. Such did not disappoint, for both Tallests immediately locked eyes in a mutual terror unlike any they'd experience in all their lives.

* * *

After a few days, it didn't take long for the awe-inspiring beauty of space to gradually dissipate in the eyes of its beholder. Following the endless hours spent watching stars, galaxies, and various intergalactic marvels through the windshield, Dib had managed to grow bored.

No. Not bored. Right now, he felt as though he were going mad.

If he thought being tucked away in the dark confines of Zim's med bay was bad, it was nothing compared to sharing a minuscule cockpit with the demented, overtly hyper robot and his sick alien. At least when he was back at the base, Dib could sneak infrequent trips upstairs or even go outside for some fresh air every once in a while. Those luxuries were no longer available to him. If anything, sharing the med bay now felt like a shoddy warm up for what he was facing currently.

The cockpit was warm and stuffy, filled with recycled air and a fine array of unpleasantries. He had never experienced such overpowering claustrophobia before in his life. It made him nervous. Fidgety. He tried to keep his direction to the front of the ship, attempting to find solace in the boundless reaches of space. Even this, though, proved to evoke some strange sense of unease, bordering dangerously on panic.

He felt trapped in the tiny enclosure, breathing in the same musty air as Zim and trying to keep his constant flurry of misgivings at bay. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck from the sheer heat of his surroundings, adding to the rank cocktail of stenches of sickness and body odor that suffocated him more and more with each passing moment.

The coordinates had been set during their liftoff and the Spittle was currently on autopilot. Dib tried to reassure himself that the hard part was over and he could simply rest while they made the journey. He quickly found, however, that doing such a thing was nothing short of impossible and it wasn't just the stifling claustrophobia.

So many little things were going wrong; crumbling away like the dilapidated remains of a poorly constructed hovel.

One of the most discerning qualms that gripped him was the strange Irken assassin who was after Zim, and now  _him_  by association. The ship's radar was constantly on standby, and though it hadn't shown any signs of another Irken vessel within proximity, he still remained rigid with crippling anxiety. It was the same sort of anxiety that consumed one in the dead of night after staying up too late reading horror novels. It shored up his senses to unbearable levels and left paranoia to trail closely behind. Every breath belonged to someone else, every heartbeat an invading force beating down the walls of his ship.

Yet another issue that continually enjoyed presenting itself in the form of dull, aching throbs was that of his ankle. He had decided to keep his boot off and elevate it, but his pitiful efforts had done next to nothing as far as aiding its healing. Quite the contrary, it had actually begun to swell further. Great.

Occasionally, he tried touching it, lightly brushing his fingers along the hot, purple skin where it protruded outward. He could manage a little weight on it, but he sensibly preferred not to aggravate the injury and had simply taken to lounging in the command chair as the hours passed him by.

Zim, in the blunted terms, was no company. Curled up in a mound of blankets and pillows in the back of the ship near the storage hatch, the little Irken hadn't so much as twitched an antenna since their departure. And despite the rather cozy onlook of his nest, nothing could quite distract from the fact that he was, indeed, forced to ride out his agony on the floor of the cockpit.

What worried Dib most, though, was the subtle but undeniable digression in his current state since they had taken off a number of days before. It couldn't possibly be ignored when he was in such close proximity to him; the alien's breathing had become ever shallower, his coughs growing more and more feeble. When his eyes opened, which was starkly infrequent at this point, the once-brilliant orbs appeared almost filmy in their dullness.

Time seemed to be nothing more than a construct as it passed. The only telltale sign that they were making any progress, in fact, was in the form of a blurb in the corner of one radar screen, so minuscule it looked as though it had been added to the ship's design as an afterthought. Despite the Spittle soaring through space in hyper speed, the tiny dot only managed to creep along at an excruciatingly slow pace as it leisurely closed the length between the Spittle and the medical planet.

According to the computer's time table, the three would touch down to Elixus's surface in approximately twelve hours.

Dib sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, attempting to find some consolation in the form of sleep.

-x-

_"Reactivate."_

The word sounded garbled and muted, like a child's toy that was low on batteries. Nevertheless, it jerked Dib from his light slumber in an instant. He glanced wildly around the console, trying to find the source of the noise. Was it a warning? Was the ship about to combust or something? Had… had they been found?

But everything on the dash appeared to be normal. All was running smoothly.

No, the noise had come from  _Zim_. Or more specifically, from his PAK.

Like a timid animal, Dib hesitantly crept to his side and peered down at him. The tiny body was deathly still from beneath its pall of thick blankets. Carefully lowering himself to a sitting position, he took a closer look at him. Not even a faint whistle of wheezy breathing was detected, nor the telltale rise and fall of his chest.

Just as he was about to reach out and touch him, however, the little Irken jolted abruptly, his previously limp antennae standing on end. His back arched up off the ground, almost as if his body had been possessed by some demonic entity.

Dib toppled backwards, letting out a startled yelp. A strange mixture of dread and adrenaline coursed through his veins like ice water.

A few short seconds went by before whatever had gripped the tiny body finally ceased. Then, the alien suddenly sucked in several deep breaths, gulping up the stale cabin air with all the fervor of a drowning survivor.

Dib untensed slightly, though his eyes were still wide as saucers behind his spectacles. He waited a few seconds. He waited a few more. As soon as he was sure Zim wasn't going to explode or something, he reached forward and tentatively placed a hand over his chest. The heart lurching within felt weak and overworked.

_What the hell just happened?_

Dib didn't have a computer or a database to ask anymore and he was none the wiser to the mysteries of Irken body functions. He suddenly felt very alone, trapped on his own island of unadulterated ignorance.

Not knowing what else to do, he dazedly began to check Zim over. The alien was cool to the touch, save for his PAK, which was alarmingly hot when his fingers grazed against its metal surface. It was like an overheating computer, whirring gently as the unsprung PAK legs guarded it like a decrepit prison cell.

He unrolled the blankets down just enough to reveal Zim's bony sternum and overabundance of visible ribs. Besides the fact that Zim was much too thin (which was nothing he didn't already know,) there didn't appear to be anything amiss. No internal hemorrhaging. No disconnected medical equipment. Everything seemed fine, physically speaking. It was his mental state that seemed to have taken a dip…

Alert would have been a poor word to describe Zim's demeanor before. Rather, he had been more  _responsive_ , even in his hallucinations. He mewled, muttered, and cursed while batting at the air and pinching his face up in distress. Occasionally, an ungloved, pale green claw would feebly rise to his chest when he coughed, or he'd sometimes clutched his midriff in his sleep, burdened with an endless pain that could seemingly never be calmed.

Now, there was none of that. He hardly responded even when Dib flicked at his antennae with an impatient, borderline panicked air. When it only elicited a faint combination of squirming and disgruntled moaning from the alien, he began shaking Zim's shoulders instead.

"Hey Zim! Open your eyes!"

The alien struggled to obey the command. Either that, or the commotion merely prompted him to rouse from his uneasy sleep. Wet slits of filmy claret revealed themselves from beneath his dark lids.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dib raised four digits and shoved them in Zim's face.

He didn't respond. Just gazed at his hand blankly while slowly blinking in the dim light of the cabin.

After several seconds, the arm dropped exasperatedly down to its owner's side. Dib glanced around for a moment, then scooped up GIR just as the robot was in the midst of abducting his backpack again.

"Zim! Hey, Spacemonster! Who is this? I  _know_  you know who it is!"

Zero recognition registered on Zim's face upon seeing his little robot sidekick. He looked vacant. Dead-eyed. The only feeling that still managed to show through his countenance was the exhaustion he so dutifully expressed.

Dib dropped GIR back onto the ground and sat down beside Zim, burying his head in his hands. He was beginning to realize he had severely underestimated the Irken's exact state—that this virus was not only tampering with his body, but his mind. More specifically, his PAK. Whatever had just happened… it surely  _must_  have come from the PAK. It was so simple to write off Zim's previous delusion with fever and pain, but now he wasn't so sure.

Those  _PAKs_ … they functioned as brains. Within the precious metal contraptions, perched precariously atop the backs of every Irken he had ever seen, was the entity that held their personalities, memories, and intelligence. Perhaps more. Neural functions. And Zim's had almost just shit the bed.

Dib realized at that moment he had no idea what he was doing… Everything little thing pertaining to Zim at this point, from his motives to the actual execution, was nothing more than a shameful indignity on his part.

He thought only long enough to bother with Zim's physical state, pumping him full of fluids and nutrition, peppering him with telemetry leads and resurrecting a force of monitors that alerted him of the Irken's every function and guarded him against the looming entity of demise. But it wasn't enough.

As this was boiling up inside his mind, Zim feebly began to hack. Dib dazedly pulled a crumpled Kleenex from his coat pocket and held it to his mouth.

He wondered if—and only if—Zim somehow made a miraculous physical recovery, his entire personality would all be wiped cleanly from the slate. If he would be a sallow husk of his former self. The long term effects of his condition where something Dib had never considered.

When he took the tissue away, tiny flecks of green covered the surface. He felt a pang in his chest as he laid eyes upon it.

Somewhere in his periphery, the radar screen lit up and began to emit a light, trilling alert. Far too distracted with his own thoughts and current task at hand, he hardly paid it a passing glance. GIR, on the other hand, happily clambered towards the source, shoving some pilfered Oreos into his mouth as he did so.

Dib helplessly waited until the alien quieted down before wiping his mouth a bit more thoroughly. Then, with another one, he dabbed at Zim's wet eyes, mopped the perspiration from his forehead, and cleaned the rivulets of snot around his tiny nostril slits.

They didn't have much time. The hour glass was on its final grains of sand and he feared he'd be delivering the cold corpse of his enemy to a planet that neither knew nor cared who they were.

"Heya, Dibby?"

"Just a minute." The boy sighed dejectedly and rose to his feet, putting as much of the pressure on his good leg as he could. The alert was still ringing away on the dash, demanding his attention.

When his hooded eyes glanced over it, though, they immediately widened behind his spectacles. It was a proximity warning—their destination was dead ahead and they should be closing in soon.

"Almost there!" GIR squealed. It were as if he believed this to be a lighthearted vacation and they were on their way to Disney.

Nonetheless, Dib decided to ride on the coattails of his deluded mirth and allowed just the faintest lick of relief to melt through him. In fact, he even went so far as to crack a tiny grin in spite of himself.

An hour later, and the planet appeared, beginning as tiny speck in the midst of an unknown galaxy and steadily growing larger as they closed the distance. Dib held his breath and watched it mesmerizingly, savoring the sight of the brilliant cobalt sphere that was destined to be their final gamble on fate. As if worried it would vanish in the blink of an eye, he kept his gaze pinned dead ahead as he disengaged the autopilot and prepared to land.


	16. Of Invader Dib and the Qualms of Being Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place

The previous sense of bustle within Zim's base had been long forgotten since the trio had taken to space days before. Rather than blaring televisions, bright florescent lighting, and slamming doors, the front room was dim and still, just as Dib had left it. The lights were off, and the only noise that could be heard was the ever-present hum of electricity that emanated from the subterranean levels.

In fact, only a few objects remained as evidence of their presence—a few crumpled candy wrappers littered here and there, a stagnant glass of water nestled against the foot of the couch, and the TV remote wedged between two cushions.

The blinds had been hastily strewn over the window in a last-minute attempt to steer away any interlopers, leaving a very miniscule gap uncovered. Through it, a little beam of warm sunshine managed to creep in and settle in a pool on the linoleum. It continually brightened and faded as the clouds paraded on overhead and the hours passed by. Just as it was beginning to light up the floor once more in its gentle rhythm, however, a small face peeked in through the window and abruptly cut it off. Shrewd, narrowed eyes scrutinizing the area for several seconds before vanishing out of sight again.

Not even a moment later, they were replaced the by the ear-splitting noise of a plasma gun. The smoldering remnants of Zim's front door creaked inwards towards the house, then unceremoniously fell off the hinges and thwacked against the floor.

The hunched silhouette of Larb appeared in the doorway, smoking gun brandished before him. When he could plainly determine that the base was empty, he lowered his weapon and scanned the room superciliously.

Getting past an Irken security system was the easiest thing imaginable. The original manufacturers behind it had never anticipated the trespassing of another Irken who had an understanding of the mechanics involved. Given that Larb had set up a similar system on Vort and was already familiar with the inner workings of standard base security, what would surely be near impossible for an inferior enemy race was a feat he had managed to accomplish with minimal difficulty. It had only taken a couple of days for him to locate the defective's military base of operations and subsequently hack into his security long enough to disable it.

His ship was still concealed in the woods less than several blocks away beneath an ample amount of foliage while its owner set out to complete a little reconnaissance work. By infiltrating Zim's base, not only did Larb have his secrets openly laid out for him like a lavish banquet, but he also had an area to take temporary shelter.

For as much as he hated to admit it, it was a necessity. Not only was Larb in a lingering amount of discomfort from the burn wounds that had afflicted nearly every inch of his body, but he was running low on his own supplies as well. It had been far too long since he had had a proper meal, and both his legs were quite cramped from extended periods of time confined to the enclosed space of his cockpit.

He stepped over the threshold, the heels of his boots clacking loudly against the floor. The noise echoed upwards to the intestine-like tangle of tubing that made up the ceiling. It was undoubtedly an Irken base, not unlike his old residence back during his early days of work on Vort.

Unlike his base, however, Zim's attempts at disguising his home were far more noticeable. Far more lazily researched. And far more…garish. Larb scoffed at the red and brown tiling and loud array of artwork proclaiming phrases so stark in their obviousness, they might as well be inviting suspicion. He eyed a poster declaring "Earth Food Rocks!" with open disdain. Common sense clearly wasn't a strong suit in those who lacked proper PAK programming in the first place.

Larb continued to wander through the main level in search of access to a conduit. Surely the defective had one. All Irkens lived burrowed beneath planets' surfaces, much like they did during ancient times.

As generations passed, the hives of old had been conveniently transformed into tech-filled labyrinths and warm nooks, but the essence was always the same. Primal instinct had ensured that Irkens replicated the same living conditions that they'd always known.

He finally found the entrance to the actual base in the form of a blue waste bin in what he assumed to be the foodening quarters. As the elevator delivered him down, he could plainly see that the base design was standard for all Invaders—it replicated his own down to the last detail. Finding the main lab was effortless as a result, and he boldly strode out of the conduit as if he were, indeed, back at his base on Vort.

He immediately began scanning the area for any clues as to where Zim and the Earth creature had gone. The entire concept seemed entirely too puzzling to him. The defective was harboring a deadly disease. What could he possibly be doing, off playing with the native inhabitants while his body was slowly deteriorating from PAK deficiency? Was he as numb to illness as he was to all other forms of practicality?

Rather than offer a smidgen of insight, however, the laboratory only served to baffle him further. Larb perused the area, vermillion eyes glinting in the darkness. The room itself was in disarray, with multiple tools and miscellaneous pieces of equipment scattered across the floor.

He gazed aloofly down at it as he tromped through the mess. At the same time, his antennae repeatedly raised and lowered, catching any and all vibrations in the vicinity. It wasn't long before both feelers hitched upwards, and Larb paused, cocking his head to listen further.

Beyond the whirring of power that surged throughout the base, he could hear something else in the distance. A persistent beeping that just barely managed to reach his sensitive antennae.

Drifting back to the elevator, Larb pondered the nebulous familiarity of the noise. It sounded as though it belonged in a hospital, but he was rather uncertain; he hadn't been near an Irken medical facility in years. Nevertheless, he made his way down the biological repair bay on a hunch, still eying his surroundings.

Following a common trend he'd seen throughout the house, the med bay showed a few signs of previous living arrangements, and accompanying evidence of a hasty retreat. The dead giveaway of the latter was the PAK charging station, having been disconnected without being properly powered down thereafter. The constant bleating it emitted in the absence of a host irritated Larb's antennae as it went on and on.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he struggled to put the pieces together. He knew the most logical steps to take would be to look through the history of orders given to the computer, and perhaps do more research on the intentions of the Earthenoid who had departed with Zim. Who knew where the little menace was heading to.

The more frequently Larb's thoughts lingered on the defective, the more resentment he held. The more his blood boiled. It was likened to a splinter buried beneath the skin's surface, unimaginably irksome and impossible to ignore. Zim was, indeed, a menace to society. He'd blindly plunged Irk into countless horrors, evaded banishment, and had undoubtedly cost the government a fortune in damages through the process. And for what?

Rather than his deserved punishment in the form of a death sentence, he had been gifted accommodations, funding, and an articulate ruse from the Tallest to keep him in a cozy state of placation on the other end of the galaxy. He had manipulated all Irken officials with keen obliviousness and blind persistence until his grubby little hands received all he had desired. He had—

Larb's next bitter thought was cut off with a loud moan of hunger from his spooch. The angry sneer plastered on his face melted a bit as he glanced down at the source of the noise. While he wanted nothing more than to jump into his work and find the information needed to track Zim down, he knew he would have to allow his priorities to momentarily waver into his own wellbeing. He was still physically drained from the sheer amount of energy it had taken for his PAK to heal his burn wounds. As much as he despised it, he would be taking refuge here in the meantime.

With a brief glance of reluctance, he turned away from the med bay and began to head back to the foodening quarters in search of the defective's snack reserve.

* * *

Dib's awestruck face peered out meekly from behind the tinted windshield as the ship touched down and was promptly swallowed up by the endless sea of docked space vessels. An even larger array careened overhead, boasting of vibrance and ceaseless bustle. He gaped at them with huge eyes that appeared even huger behind the magnification of his spectacles as they zipped across the violet sky, onward to destinies unknown.

The sight was enough to give anyone sensory overload. Countless shades of brilliant color—far more vibrant and plentiful than anything he'd seen on Earth—assaulted his vision and caused his pupils to dart every which way as he pressed his hands against the windshield. His breath hitched in his throat for a moment, then proceeded to cloud the glass. He closed his open mouth and absently cleared the area with the hem of his jacket sleeve.

The very concept of what he had infringed upon managed to both overwhelm him and leave him mesmerized in the incomparable beauty of it all. He would have loved nothing more than to continue staring at it all. The sight he was witnessing was positively incredulous—something no other human had laid eyes on. But he couldn't. He had accepted the task at hand not as an onus, but as a mission. A mission he couldn't bear to fail when he had already come so far.

Dib glanced back down at Zim, catching a glimpse of his pale cheek peeking from beneath the blanket. A sad strand of wilted antenna was strewn across the floor. He knelt down beside him and, with uncharacteristic tenderness, rested a hand on his shoulder. The alien's body was curled into an impossibly tight little ball, eyes pinched firmly shut.

"Zim? Hey, Zim. Wake up. We're here." He shook the tiny wing of a shoulder blade gently, lips tugging down in faint frown at the lack of response he received. Granted, he wasn't expecting very much from him at this point. Perhaps a twitch of the antenna or a mild stirring at having been awoken. Instead, his form remained deathly still.

Dib paused awkwardly for a beat, then gently unattached the IVs and limped towards the little hovering platform that had been propped in the corner.

He had already done his research regarding where to take Zim. The ship's computer had directed him to the sector of the planet devoted to PAK repair and government-regulated modification. The monitor had offered him a series of letters in the Irken language that Dib had committed to memory, naming off a suitable hospital nearby and supplementary directions to it. In case his own mind failed him, however, the boy had also copied the strange characters to the best of his ability on a scrap of paper and buried it deep within the right pocket of his trench coat.

At this point, it was simply a matter of getting Zim from point A to point B. When Dib attempted to activate the little gurney, though, the contraption only emitted a pathetic series of rattling. He turned the platform over in his hands and tried again. Same result.

He shot a nervous glance at Zim as a weak bout of throaty coughing and congested gurgles spluttered from the alien's throat. Dib's mind was clouding with fresh worry as his eyes dropped back down to the gurney. He stared dumbly at it for a few seconds, chewing his bottom lip.

After a several more moments spent tinkering with it, all he had managed to do was make it hover a few inches over the ground before it fell dead yet again. The clang it made against the metal floor caused Zim to jolt slightly.

The boy sat back and released a heavy sigh as he considered this new position he was in. In any other instance, carrying the little alien would hardly be a difficult plight, especially considering Zim was roughly the size of a fourth grader. his ankle, however, was still visibly swollen and continued to sport an ugly collection of bruises. He had barely been able to put his boot on that foot when they landed. It had been the sole reason he'd even bothered with the gurney in the first place.

He was roused from his frustrations by a hitch in Zim's already wheezy breathes.

Dib pursed his lips and stood back up. Then, before he could give much thought, he promptly scooped up Zim's tiny body from the ground and into his own arms, blanket and all.

The bony form slumped heavily against his chest while the tangle of PAK legs scritched against the floor beneath him. Dib held the bundle close, feeling the alien's hot, shallow breaths against his neck.

Straightway, a sharp stab of pain tore through his swollen ankle and ran up his leg, causing him to yelp out in agony. Tears sprang into his eyes and he squeezed them shut and gritted his teeth. When he opened them again, his glasses had fogged over. It took all of his willpower to keep himself upright as he simultaneously bit back pained grunts and forced deep breaths into his lungs.

The pain subsided into a dull throbbing after a moment, and Dib managed a shy step forward towards the ship's exit.

"GIR, guard the ship. Don't let anyone onboard, okay?" He turned his head slightly to sneak a glance of the robot, who was struggling with the zipper on his backpack. "And stop trying to eat my food!"

He released a surly grunt through his discomfort and let his eyes drop to the blanket. He warily reached out a hand and unwrapped part of it, peering down at Zim's ashen face. The Invader's brows pinched upwards as he bled sweat and struggled against his heavy eyelids to open his dull eyes. They parted for a mere moment and seemed to stare through Dib, then rolled back and surrendered themselves to darkness once more.

Dib's pained grimace shifted into something a bit more defiant, with a touch of uncharacteristic sympathy playing around the edges. He covered Zim back up. Then, pausing to take a deep breath in preparation of the unknown, he resolutely pushed open the hatch and stepped outside.

* * *

The Massive was currently enroute back to Irk. More specifically, it was heading back to the capital city where the Tallest had previously resided before Operation Impending Doom II had required their presence upon the Irken mothership.

Now, it was essential that they return to their home planet to partake in discussion with nearly every other Irken official who had a say in military operations. Along with them would undoubtedly be no less than a dozen Control Brains, there to monitor the assembly and ultimately decide the next course of action.

In the meantime, the Tallest had promptly taken to their private chambers. Aside from the occasional rapping at the door from a meek servant to deliver snacks, the rest of the Massive's crew had left them to meditate in solitude.

"What are we going to do?" Purple's voice arose out of brooding silence as they both tried to digest their predicament.

His co-ruler took several seconds before answering. "I-I…I don't think we can do anything. It would be best to just stay silent," he finally replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

"You're suggesting we…" Purple started, trailing off midway through his thought.

Red couldn't determine whether or not he was too afraid to finish it, or if he genuinely didn't understand what he was getting at and was attempting to coax the answer out of him.

"We cannot afford to reveal anything that would damage our reputations. Not in front of the Control Brains."

Purple's antennae twitched uncomfortably at this.

"If playing dumb is the only way to do that, then so be it," Red continued.

"So you're saying we should just…let whatever happen, happen?"

"What other  _choice_  do we have?" Red snapped. There was an unmistakable crack in his voice as the words spewed forth.

Despite years of enjoyment in pushing the boundaries of the law, the two were not exempt from them altogether. They were still at the mercy of the Control Brains along with every other Irken citizen, height be damned, and their crime was one punishable by death. And even if they weren't executed, they would still undoubtedly be imprisoned. Their titles would be stripped from them, along with their royal garb and credibility. They both knew this.

Purple paused for a moment, considering his next words. "Why couldn't we just explain ourselves? We took care of the defective for good. Getting rid of Zim was the best for everyone."

" _The defective_?" Red parroted. "You mean 'The Most Incredible Irken Ever'? Because  _that's_  what he was labeled at his Existence Evaluation! His entire record is just one enormous gray area as far as the Control Brains are concerned!" He scowled angrily, rubbing at his temples with two slender fingers. "I don't understand why you aren't taking this more seriously! Thinking more logically! Don't you care about our positions? Because those are on the line if we let anything slip!"

Purple stood up and perched both hands on his hips in defiance. "Don't  _you_  care about the possibility of a war? Between us and Meekrob? You know, the planet responsible for some of the greatest technological advancements in the galaxy?  _That_  Meekrob?"

Unlike Vort, Meekrob had never been an ally of Irk. The former had been easily overtaken and conquered in a period of time when their guards were down, but the same principles would not apply in this instance. Meekrob had been constantly poised for battle for over two hundred years. The strain to keep their relations civil were already hanging by a thread, resulting in countless terrorizations and a civil war that had caused intractable tension on both sides.

To declare war against them would be a risk, for it wouldn't be a clear-cut Irken victory. And once again, they both knew this.

Red paused, eyes staring far off in the distance. His silence was answer enough, though.

Purple returned to his seat and buried his head in his hands. "What are we going to do?" he muttered again, more to himself this time.

Red answered anyway, voice just scarcely above a whisper. "I…I don't know…" he finally admitted. "I really don't know."

* * *

The trail of PAK legs had been quickly snatched up and concealed as much as possible beneath a combination of the blanket and Dib's trench coat, as to not draw more attention than necessary. The weight being forced on his ankle caused it to throb as each pounding step aggravated it further. In the back of his already distraught mind, he feared the possibility of his entire leg giving out beneath him. No doubt, those who surrounded them would sooner trample the boy and his suspicious cargo than offer help.

Many of the planet's occupants looked to be Irken, and the glut of bright mauve space vessels within the docking station confirmed as much. Everywhere he looked, Dib was assaulted with the familiar insignia that had been proudly branded on every bit of Irken property. It was a symbol—a silent reminder of their superiority and ubiquity. Zim's race owned this planet, and they owned the respect of anyone who dared tread upon it.

He couldn't help but eye various passerby with the anxiety of a felon on the run. He pulled the quilt over Zim's face in an effort keep him out of sight. He didn't want to draw any suspicions by revealing a half-dead member of their society hidden within the folds of his trench coat.

As it was, though, none of them appeared to pay attention to what Dib was carrying. Instead, they'd directed their attention to Dib himself. Heads turned as he streaked past them, eliciting mutters and the occasional scoff. His mere presence was garnering far too much unwanted attention.

As they watched him, his eyes couldn't help but linger on them in return. He was observing their mannerisms as surreptitiously as someone in his position feasibly could, taking note of the characteristics they all seemed to share—from the long set of antennae that bobbed along with each dignified footfall, to the varying shades of jade skin they sported, and finally down to the bright metallic PAKs fused to their spinal columns. Not a single Irken was without one. And up close he could plainly see that Zim's fellow kind resembled far more than just his physical appearance. They all seemed to carry themselves in a similar way that boasted of pride and the potential to show hostility at a moment's notice. He was torn between awe and helpless insecurity as their eyes passed over him.

Though a vast majority were far taller than Zim, Dib still towered over each and every one of them in all his awkward glory. His beige skin contrasted peculiarly with the various hues of green and his small eyes nervously met large, bug-like ones that swallowed almost their entire faces. Some widened in dismay and other narrowed dangerously in response to his presence. Countless pairs of slender, insectoid antennae reacted accordingly in turn.

Within the sea of green and crisp, gaudy uniforms, Dib could occasionally make out other alien races. He couldn't stop to spare them more than a passing glance, but from what he could make out, these beings received similar, if not worse treatment from passerby. He could hear nasally taunts passed in their directions, and even witnessed an Irken spitting in the direction of another alien out of the corner of his eye. It was only then that Dib began to fully understand his position.

He was intruding on a planet owned by those who lived to conquer worlds. Unlike humanity, these creatures were aware of life beyond their own planet and despised the very existence of other aliens. And that's what Dib was now. He was the interloper.  _He_  was the alien.

As he pushed onward through the crowded streets, he was able to make out a large building looming ahead. The exterior was no different from the majority of Irken architecture, full of curves and mauve shades. It was rather nondescript, giving no more of an air of importance than any other building. The Irken writing on the front matched what the computer had offered him, however, and reassurance flooded through Dib at the sight.

Just as he was about to ride on this second wind and break into a hobbling sprint, Zim's little body tensed and arched in his arms, then went slack. From beneath the fabric of the blanket, he could feel the PAK begin to heat up and whir just as it had before when the tiny Irken had stopped breathing back on the ship.

The previous warmth of relief quickly transformed back into panic. Dib skidded to halt as his heart flipflopped. Hardly aware of the reactionary pain that ran up his entire leg, he hastily unwrapped the blanket again and instinctively pressed his index and middle finger against the clammy skin on Zim's throat. It was only after a few seconds of excruciating stillness that he could feel a faint quivering of a pulse beneath his fingertips.

Even so, he made no move to continue walking. He stood motionless in the middle of the busy street as others pushed past both him and the unconscious Irken in his arms. Several grunted their malcontent and a few even offered some irritated words in their native dialect that Dib did not wish to translate.

"Zim?" he murmured urgently. Of course, he received no reply. "Listen to me. I'm taking you to a hospital. An  _Irken_  hospital. Just hold on."

He swallowed thickly, then burst into a breakneck speed towards the entrance of the building. Each footfall caused his ankle to scream in protest. It was a miracle it hadn't given out on him yet.

Shoving through the double doors, he immediately caught sight of a nondescript Irken in a drab, plum-colored uniform sitting primly at the front desk. The receptionist gawked openly at the boy as he entered, undoubtedly caught in a state of bewilderment. Dib ignored his stares and shoved the heavy parcel before him.

Zim's dead weight continued to strain against his arms and bear down on his injury. For a fleeting moment, Dib feared his imminent collapse against the cold floor. The fact that he would undoubtedly drop the frail Irken in the same motion was the only motivation he had for forcing himself to remain upright.

"Listen..." he wheezed, "I need help! He's s-sick…or something. H-his PAK isn't working, and I-I don't know what to do, and—"

With one hand, the receptionist cut off the stuttering Earth boy and peered down at the shapeless mass that was thrust in front of him. Within seconds, Zim was promptly removed from Dib's arms and placed on a levitating gurney nearby. He was still wrapped tightly in the quilt, and all he could see of him was one ungloved hand and his antennae peeking out. Another moment, and the Elite was ushered into a backroom.

Dib watched his alien disappear, the heavy doors slamming shut and preventing the human from seeing anything on the other side. He stood there stupidly, caught up in a whirlwind of shocked disbelief.

Was… was that it? Could it have been that easy? That anticlimactic?

As he gradually caught his breath, he became increasingly aware of the judging gaze of the receptionist. The Irken cast his large purple eyes upon him, taking in the crumpled scythe lock atop the boy's head, his filthy pair of boots, and the disheveled clothing that hung loosely from his frame. Dib shot a weak glare back, displeased by the blatant scrutiny he was under, but his attempts at retaliation didn't faze him. The Irken boldly locked eyes and continued staring.

"Is that it?" he asked meekly after a moment. He felt as if he'd entered another plane of existence. As if everything from culture shock to Zim's hasty departure were just now catching up with him.

"Is  _what_  it?" the receptionist asked. There was an evident hint of venom in his voice.

"Zim. What's going to happen to him?"

The Irken grunted. "I'm a reception drone. How on Irk would I know? They'll probably run some preliminary tests on his PAK before they do anything. Now run along, you…  _you_ … whatever  _you_  are."

"Human."

"Whatever."

Dib scowled and let his shoulders drop. He absently limped away from the front desk and wandered towards what he presumed to be the waiting room. Plopping down heavily into a mauve, levitating chair, he heaved out a sigh.

He had done everything he could for his ailing nemesis, and now whatever happened was left to fate and the unknown forces of Irken medicine. He couldn't even begin to predict what would follow—he hadn't bothered to think that far ahead in the first place. Every ounce of physical and emotional energy had gone into simply transporting Zim to a place where he would be in more capable hands. For the time being, he supposed his work was done.

That final thought filled him with a reasonable wave of solace. And with solace came a heavy shroud of exhaustion that followed. Seeing no reason not to, Dib allowed his heavy eyelids to flutter closed. The gnawing anxiety inside him had waned just enough to allow him some respite.

It was as he was on the verge of dozing, when the world feels as though it's being viewed through a tunnel, that he was jarred awake by the abrupt sound of a door slamming.

Whirling around in the chair, he caught sight of two Irken guards walking towards him. Dib stood up, blinking away his disorientation. As they approached, he realized that one of the guards had something slung over his shoulder.

Words of questioning rose to his lips, but before any of them could be spoken, the guard dumped Zim's limp body carelessly at Dib's feet.

The little Invader flopped limply onto the floor and landed in a contorted position. His arms were splayed out as if awaiting embrace and his legs were bent irregularly at the knees. A trickle of blood oozed from the swollen area of his arm where his old IV had been removed. His spine was bowed unnaturally as his full weight rested upon his PAK.

In that instant, utter horror swept over Dib. He tried to find those words again, but they had been swept away in an instant. Nothing came, and he merely pursed his lips and gazed up at the duo with wide eyes.

"His kind is unwelcomed here," the first guard explained curtly. He leered at the human, looking him up and down before narrowing his eyes. "As is yours, for that matter."

"Wh—what? Why?" Dib found his voice buried somewhere within his initial shock. It came out as a croak and intermingled with the cracking, deep voice that he had started to develop in the past few years of adolescence. At the same time, his muscles were paralyzed from the neck down. He felt as though he were going to be sick.

It was true. His worse fears walking into this situation were being realized, and he suddenly knew what the guard would say before the words even left his lips. Nevertheless, he still heard him utter them from afar, as if this entire debacle was nothing more than a vague and flittering dream.

"He's obviously defective. Worthless."

The other guard nudged Zim's prone body with the toe of his boot. "His PAK ID code has him labeled him as a convict, sentenced to exile. And besides. He doesn't meet the regulations for medical treatment, anyway."

He wordlessly pointed to a sign near the entrance. It merely looked like a height chart at first, standard in any hospital. Dib numbly stood up and approached it. After a beat, he turned back around and gave the guard an agonizing look of confusion.

"Irken health code 843 states that any patient beneath a height requirement of 122 centimeters is deemed unworthy of the hospital's time and expertise," the first replied coldly.

In a haze, Dib watched him lift Zim's body up again and toss him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Then, there was a rough, clawed grip on his upper arm as the other guard stoically towed him towards the exit.

"Leave the premises immediately. Or we will be forced to use higher reinforcements," the first guard said from beside him.

The boy stumbled forward in a terror-driven stupor, nearly falling flat on his face as he was pulled towards the door they'd come in through. It wasn't until they were nearly through the threshold that he finally snapped.

"STOP! You can't do this! He'll die! Doesn't that mean anything? PLEASE!" Dib dug his heels into the ground and began thrashing against the firm hold on his arm. The unfaltering grasp left bruises as he tried to pull away. Even as the words left his lips, though, the boy realized somberly that they were in vain. That Zim's life truly meant nothing to this coldhearted race, and that even the most desperate of pleas on his behalf would only fall on deaf ears.

The guards ignored him and quickened their pace and burst outside, stopping when they got to the sidewalk. Dib was roughly shoved to the side, his bad ankle failing to take the brunt of the impact. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, groaning as he did so. Zim's body was deposited callously beside him.

"N-NO!" Dib burst out. A despairing sob tore its way from his throat as he staggered to his feet. He could feel the scuffs from the pavement burn through him. The guards both made a move to go back inside.

"I'm not leaving! Not until you help him!" he yelled. Somewhere in his periphery, he began to notice a crowd beginning to form on the pathway.

Both Irkens turned back towards him, exchanging a cold glance with one another.

"Please, he needs—" A gloved fist connected with his cheekbone. Dib staggered backwards and nearly lost his footing. Before he could comprehend what had just happened, though, he was hit with another punch. This time he went down. He could feel his head swing back and slam against the hard ground, and stars burst behind his closed eyes.

Despite being nearly as tall as them, he was at a major disadvantage in strength and stamina. A tough, black boot kicked him in the stomach, and Dib felt the air leave his lungs as the wind was knocked out of him. He opened his eyes, only to see that his glasses had been knocked clear off his head.

The hazy figure of one of the guards held something that most aptly resembled a cattle prod, then shoved it into the crook of the boy's neck.

A shock rippled through his body, incapacitating him instantaneously. Dib felt his muscles seize up, preventing him from making a single voluntary movement. It was like cramp, but throughout his entire body. When it finally ceased, his cheek was pressed against the pavement, and his blurred gaze stared helplessly in front of him. He could see the boots of the two guards disappearing back into the building. Then, darkness.

-x-

For hours it seemed, he lay there. Hardly able to move. Struggling to breathe.

By the time he'd resurfaced from unconsciousness, the crowd surrounding them had long since dispersed. Without a second thought, they had diverted their path and continued on with their days as if nothing had happened.

When he could finally will his muscles to budge on their own accord, Dib slowly raised himself to a sitting position. His head swam. Everywhere he looked, Irkens went about. Some glimpsed at him and Zim with morbid intrigue, but none offered any form of assistance. There, amongst the bustling streets and amid the throngs of green-skinned creatures who held unfalteringly to their own deluded egocentricity, he felt truly alone.

He hugged his midsection with shaking, feeble arms and wilted on the sidewalk. He could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and his vision warbled nauseously. Everything ached.

What was once his greatest adversary was nothing more than a lifeless heap, getting stepped over and pushed against the walkway less than ten feet away from him. Dib weakly shuffled over to him on his knees. A desolate sob escaped his lips, and he wept bitterly over Zim's body while life went on around him. Every ounce of his pent up exhaustion began to manifest itself into the familiar sensation of failure. Failure was something he'd grown accustomed to. It was the one pain he could always take in stride. This time, though, it practically paralyzed him in devastation.

Dib hardly even noticed when a mauve pair of boots tentatively approached the twosome and came to a halt on the pathway in front of them. The boy merely shook violently with grief, reaching out a scuffed, bloody hand to wipe his nose. There was no doubt that the little Irken didn't feel the cuts and scrapes that graced his skin when he was tossed onto the sidewalk outside the hospital. Nor did he feel the teardrops sizzle upon his cheek as his greatest enemy knelt over him and cried.

All the while, the newcomer stood there, squinting down at Zim with tiny, garnet eyes until, at last, Dib reached out a trembling hand to fish around for his glasses.

When he finally set his dull gaze on what he perceived to be nothing more than a shameless onlooker, something suddenly caught in his throat. Unlike the other Irkens he'd seen, who all appeared rather indistinguishable to his untrained eye, this one somehow seemed vaguely familiar. From its small stature to its stained tunic, it looked irrefutably like someone he had been acquainted with before, once upon a time.

Just as Dib was about to open his mouth to say something, the short Irken spoke instead.

"Zim? Is…is that you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a HUGE shoutout to Couchy, who created the beautiful cover image for this story over on Fanfiction.net, along with four other gorgeous pieces of fanart inspired by "Parade." Please check out their art on Tumblr under the URL couch-house! Never in my life have I seen such stunning, unique color schemes and incredible style! Like, I still get all giddy with excitement whenever I look at them!
> 
> Next, I want to give an enormous thank you to FauxPromises, who has very kindly betaread this entire story, including the chapter you're reading now (Yay! No more of Rissy's silly grammatical errors!) To go through this long-ass story and painstakingly proofread it was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me, and I can't thank her enough. And guys! If you're into Final Fantasy VI or IX, please check her out over here under the same name! She's written some lovely work and has a phenomenal writing style that seriously puts some professional authors to shame!
> 
> And thank you all for your support! It means the whole world to me!


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